


Sold My Soul To A Three Piece

by charmingcontender



Series: Accounts by the Primary Handlers [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Natasha, BAMF Tony Stark, Brock Tries, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky and Natasha Have a Unique Relationship, Depression, Food Issues, Gen, M/M, Memory Loss, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nudity, POV Brock Rumlow, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Red Room, SHIELD Does Not Take Care of Their Supersoldier, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6318574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmingcontender/pseuds/charmingcontender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part One:</p><p>The Winter Soldier's primary handler receives quite a bit of leniency.</p><p>OR Brock Rumlow's interactions with the asset over eleven years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT: Due to the sheer amount of Russian in this fic, all Russian will be enclosed for the benefit of mobile readers and so that I do not mutilate the language entirely.
> 
> ALSO IMPORTANT: I would like to clarify that, while Brock and Bucky share a very close and intimate relationship, it is neither sexual nor romantic and it is never going to become that.
> 
> ANOTHER IMPORTANT NOTE: This is primarily a Steve/Bucky story, but, due to the outsider POV, it may not always come across as that via lack of the outsider's information, personal experience, or encounters between characters while the narrator was not present.
> 
> Less important notes: The title is taken from Halsey's song Hold Me Down and I felt it was an excellent theme for Brock in this story.
> 
> I will continue to update this fic, but for now I have Part I, Brock Rumlow's point of view, completely finished and will be posting the entirity of it, though more will follow at a later date.
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Marvel.

The Winter Soldier’s primary handler receives quite a bit of leniency. 

Oh, the handler’s personal performance must remain impeccable and asset must still complete all missions assigned from the asset’s only other and highest superior, Director Pierce the Supreme Head of Hydra in North America, and report to Medical and Tech when required. But, barring those restrictions, the asset’s handler is responsible for the asset’s care, containment, and treatment when it is out of the cryo tank. 

The thing is: Hydra knows that they can’t have just any random smchuk be able to control the weapon that the Winter Soldier presents, so only the Supreme Head of each continent’s division of Hydra and the primary handler are authorized to give orders and commands that the asset is required to follow and, while Director Pierce is gloating or harsh with the Soldier when pushed beyond his patience, he generally leaves the asset alone and interacts via the primary handler; the Med and Tech agents never need the Soldier for long and are always detached and clinical. 

This means that the asset’s primary handler has a lot of responsibility, even more power, and a fuckton of time to kill. 

Brock Rumlow is of the opinion that too many past primary handlers have abused the power they were given when they were entrusted with the asset. He does not plan to follow in the footsteps of his predecessors.

He walks out of Director Pierce’s office, walking briskly and seemingly focused, but he is in a daze. He has just been officially given the title of Primary Handler of the Winter Soldier, Direct Superior, Level 8. He has been actively working towards this for the last three years and four months. He clenches his jaw and strides out of SHIELD HQ and goes to the bank as quickly as he can.

\--

March 2003

The first time Brock sees what he will come to learn is the Winter Soldier, he has been a member of SHIELD and Hydra for four years, ever since he was honourably discharged from Special Ops in 1999. He has made quite a reputation for himself in both of these agencies due to his skill, determination, drive, and intelligence. 

He has risen through the ranks quickly and is on his eighth mission as a Level 6 Hydra operative when a secondary team makes itself known with a single perfect shot. At first, Brock thinks it must be Barton there for SHIELD, what with the distance and the angle and the accuracy, before he dismisses the thought. He completes his portion of the mission and gets the hell out.

When he gets back to base, he makes his report and comments on the superb shot, making a recommendation that the shooter should be identified and recruited if at all possible. Six weeks later, Sitwell calls him to his office at the Hydra HQ in DC.

Brock knocks on the doorframe and walks in. “You requested me, sir?”

Sitwell gives him a polite smile. “Rumlow. Close the door and have a seat.”

He does.

“Your most recent report was read by one of the higher ups and I was instructed to talk to you about the shooter.”

Good we could use talent like that, Brock thinks. The shot was beyond impressive, but-- “Sorry, sir, but I put all the details in my report. I don’t have anymore info to help you find him.”

“We don’t need to find him.”

“SIr?”

“He’s ours.” Brock doesn’t allow his confusion to show on his face. Why wouldn’t an agent with a shot like that be more talked about in his own agency? “Tell me, Rumlow, have you ever heard of the Winter Soldier?”

Of course, he has. What kind of intelligence agency operative would he be if he didn’t know this particular ghost story? Still, it seems a bit far-fetched. He raises an eyebrow.

“The Winter Soldier is a Hydra agent, that’s what you’re telling me, sir?”

Sitwell hums. “Not exactly. More asset than agent. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll see for yourself soon enough. We’re done here.”

Brock leaves Sitwell’s office and goes out for Iranian.

\--

The second time Brock Rumlow sees the asset, five months have passed since his meeting with Sitwell and he has received a promotion due to his outstanding work and leadership on one particular mission. He is on his way to meet a superior he has never before encountered and he is in a Hydra base in Virginia he’s never been to. He makes it down three flights of stairs, four security checks, and past no less than 32 high Level agents before he finds the place he’s supposed to be.

After his meeting, he passes a gym, but now it is very much not empty. It is a flurry of movement and Brock has to blink before he believes what he’s seeing. One man is beating the shit out of 27 high Level, field agents. There is no way that should be possible. Brock is a high Level field agent; he knows there are certain physical requirements to get that high, namely being pretty fucking hard to take down. The guy is just mowing through them though, even with something covering his arm. Wait, that is his arm. What the fuck?

When the last agent taps out, a man leaning against the gym wall snaps out, “Stand down.” The metal arm man freezes immediately before standing loosely in the center of the room. “On your knees.” The man who just knocked 27 highly trained agents to their asses drops to his knees without question, protest, or expression. Then he just sits there while all the agents he was sparring with pick themselves up and make their ways out the door. Brock waves over one of the agents he recognises.

“What was that?”

Jonles gives him a tired grin. “The Winter Soldier needs to brush up on its moves, if it’s out of cryo too long. We were the unlucky victims chosen to be the asset’s punching bags today.” Jonles huffs out a laugh while Brock processes that the agency he’s working for actively freezes and unfreezes people. What a health hazard. “It’s not the funnest of jobs, but there are benefits.” Then he realizes Jonles just used all gender neutral pronouns and object nouns when the man in there is clearly a man.

“Why’d he just drop like that?”

That gets him a weird look. “What Level are you again, Rumlow?”

“Just got promoted to 7 last week; that’s why I’m here.”

“Right, well, none of this information goes to Levels 1-6, got it?”

“Yeah.”

“The asset does what its handler tells it to. There’s protocols and it must follow them. The asset can get agitated and violent, which is why it has a handler dedicated solely to ordering and restraining it.”

“Is he not human?”

That gets a belly laugh. “I sure the fuck don’t know. I’d say no fuckin’ way, but its asshole feels real enough.” 

Jonles walks away before Brock can come up with something to say.

The asset is still on its knees.

\--

Two weeks later, Brock is given a mission in which he will need to work with Strike Team Alpha. Due to the nature of the team, he is given a six-page file on Strike Team Alpha. Two pages give the basics of the four other operatives and four pages are reserved for the asset and his handler. The short file tells Brock the bare bones of the operation of the man they call an ‘it’ and the agent that can control his every action. It tells him what he should expect from the asset and that his commands can be followed, if the asset is feeling complacent, but the only orders it is required to follow are those it is given by its handler, Fetts. 

There is no mention of this weapon’s humanity, but he intends to check that for himself.  
Brock climbs in the Quinjet in the hangar and the Soldier would be a menacing figure in his tac gear and mask if he wasn’t docilely accepting a violent elbow to the gut from the man who had commanded him to kneel. “Sit there and be quiet until the jet lands.”

Brock doesn’t say anything, even though his skin is tight. The handler walks to the other end of the jet with the other operatives, but Brock takes a seat next to the asset. The other agents ignore him. The asset does not move for the nine hours it takes to arrive in South Africa; Brock isn’t even sure he’s breathing. He sits silently with the asset and he likes to think they both bask in the calm and the stillness.

The mission goes off without a hitch. The asset is a thing of beauty and deadly grace in his actions and Brock has such respect for this weapon, whether or not he’s human. Once they get back on the jet, Brock thinks to offer him a clap on the shoulder before there’s suddenly a stun baton being pulled out and turned on and why the hell is that needed? The asset is not paying attention to his handler, has spaced out; it is obvious. The logical response is apparently for Fetts to hold the baton to the asset’s neck for 13 seconds until the asset’s eyes regain their hardness. He doesn’t make a sound despite the current. Brock’s body aches in sympathy and he doesn’t see why there was an immediate jump to force. The Soldier was sitting quietly in his seat, not running off on a roaring rampage. 

“Paying attention now?” The asset isn’t heaving for breath or even shifted in his perfect posture. Brock wonders how used he is to the electricity from the baton for that to be possible.

“Yes, sir.” There is almost complete submission in the tone, but not quite; just the the barest harsh edge. Fetts either doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Sit there and be quiet until the jet lands.” 

Brock is sensing a pattern. So he sits down next to the asset and stays there silently while the asset spaces out again.

If this treatment is normal, Brock can’t find it in himself to blame him.

-

The second week of November, Brock walks in on the asset being spitted by two cocks and surrounded by six others, hard and waiting their turn. The asset stays bent over as instructed, dead-eyed and complacent. Turner meets his eye.

“Wanna join, Rumlow?”

“Not today; I’ve got a job to do.”

He walks out. He doesn’t vomit, He doesn’t run. He doesn’t clench his fist. He doesn’t grit his teeth. How dare they defile and mistreat their most accurate and deadly weapon, human or machine. This is one of the most dangerous predators in the world and they have reduced it to a fucktoy. That is the moment Brock Rumlow decides he will be the next Primary Handler, even if he has to arrange accidents for everyone that may be selected before him.

-

Brock walks into the break room with his dirty tupperware. The asset kneels on the floor in the kitchen, naked, filthy, and covered in his own blood. Brock glares at Fetts, who sits unconcernedly at the table. Brock has been gleaning information about the asset eveywhere he can without drawing attention to himelf. This treatment is not new nor is it uncommon; it may even be considered tame. Some of the tales he’s heard about the asset’s treatment tested his ability to refuse to vomit.

“Is this necessary? There’s food in here.”

Fetts tosses him a glance. “Need your dishes cleaned, Rumlow? Soldier, get up and wash and dry Agent Rumlow’s dishes.” 

The asset stands up and stalks towards Brock. Brock sneers at Fetts. “I can do my own dishes. I don’t need a maid.”

“Why not? It’s what it’s good for.” Fetts shrugs. “Soldier, disregard the last order. Go back to where you were and get back on your knees.

Fetts goes back to his lunch. Brock rinses out his tupperware while the Soldier’s eyes burn holes in his shoulders. He turns around and finds the Soldier watching him with confused, curious eyes. He gives him a small smile. 

“See you later.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Later, Rumlow,” Fetts tosses out. It’s not Brock’s fault if Fetts thinks he was talking to him.

\--

In mid-December, Brock hears that the asset snapped the necks of Strike Team Alpha, after his handler was injured to unconsciousness on a mission. The asset is not able to kill his handler, but he can simply leave him to die unless ordered otherwise. He was at the evac point, surrounded by five dead bodies including his handler, blankly staring ahead. 

Pierce was called in. The asset was punished violently, sent to Med and Tech, and put in the tank. 

Brock grins to himself when he thinks about the angles of their necks.

\--

He throws himself into his work, makes himself invaluable to Hydra and notable for his leadership and ability for dealing with difficult situations and people who have no desire to comply. He does things he’s not proud of for both Hydra and SHIELD, becomes someone he didn’t think he’d ever be, but it’s worth it. He doesn’t allow it to weigh on his conscious, molding and remolding his edges to get the job done. But that’s not quite right. He hardens and sharpens and, if he’s not careful, he’s going to become a weapon to be used on the asset instead of the barrier he wants to be. 

He won’t let that happen. So he completes his missions by any means necessary, hardens and sharpens until he’s a razor’s edge and polishes polishes polishes the part of him that is a shield. He never uses it -- neither of his employers want a shield when there’s a weapon on hand -- but he doesn’t let it tarnish, doesn’t let it get lost and disappear. 

He measures time by how long it’s been since the asset went back in cryo. He marks down each successful mission as one step closer to the Soldier. One year passes, then two, then three; the asset remains suspended in ice and Brock Rumlow climbs his way through the hierarchy. 

At three years three months, all agents Level 7 and higher are told that the asset is returning and applications for anyone who wants the position of Primary Handler of the Winter Soldier are now open. 

Brock applies. So do many others. The job may be dangerous -- life-threatening --, but there are benefits. He doesn’t ask the other applicants out right, but he listens. He listens to what they say and he wants to gut them. 

The asset does not deserve this filth. None of them would ever discuss their favoured firearm this way, much less any other agent. It is unprofessional and he is disgusted with them.

\--

Three years four months after the Winter Soldier is placed in cryostasis, Brock Rumlow is given the title Primary Handler of the Winter Soldier, Direct Superior, Level 8. Director Pierce hands him the dossier on his new charge and tells him, “Remember, Agent Rumlow, the asset takes things very literally, so you must be clear in your instructions. You are responsible for its care, containment, and treatment. The asset must complete its missions and report to reconditioning when required; you are to follow the head doctor’s demands about the asset’s diet. It must not be permanently damaged while in your care. Those are your parameters. They plan to open the tank tomorrow at 1145; be there and read, memorize, and burn the dossier before then. The techs have instructions to imprint you on it.”

Brock Rumlow heads to the bank, a small bubble of victory in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**April 2007**

 

Brock uses his new clearance to access the lower levels of the Hydra base known simply as the Vault. There are technicians, all in sterile suits and facial masks, scurrying around, checking files, setting up machines. A dark-haired man who appears to be in his late-fifties approaches him, cuts him off before he enters the room.

 

He is asked congenially, “Are you Brock Rumlow?”  The man has an accent, Russian.

 

“That’s me. And you are?”

 

“I’m Ivan Oparkov, head doctor of the Soldier’s medical team. We weren’t expecting you until the thawing tomorrow.” Oparkov looks at him with sharp, intelligent eyes and a flat expression. This man is worth making an ally of; unfortunately, Brock doesn’t know enough about him to know how to make a good first impression. This man is not someone to be underestimated, if he deals with the Soldier on a regular basis. 

 

“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to watch the prep work.”

 

Oparkov’s eyebrows draw in on themselves. “Why do you want to do that?” 

 

Brock takes a chance. “So that I can get a better understanding of how the asset operates.” Brock raises his eyebrows in question, waiting for the okay.

 

The corners of Oparkov’s mouth turn up in approval. “In the twenty-five years, I’ve worked with the asset, do you know how many of the fourteen handlers have done what you’re asking to do?” 

 

“Not very many.”

 

The man grimaces. 

 

“There have been three. Both handlers the asset had from 1982 to 1991 at which time the Soldier was sold to the Americans. I came as part of the, how do you say, ‘package deal.’ The primary handler stayed for two months to train the new handler, for the Americans did not wish a Russian guiding the Soldier, then went back to Russia. The first American handler was the only other one who saw this process.”

 

Block’s mouth tightens at the absolute incompetence shown and notes the way the doctor said ‘guiding’.

 

“Isn't the handler needed to ensure the asset complies? The Soldier is not required to follow your commands, according to the dossier I was given.”

 

The dark eyes glint. “I do not find a handler necessary. In fact, they generally make the asset panic, which I actively try to avoid.”

 

Brock thinks he is going to like this man. “Well, I'd like to watch, if you'll let me.”

 

“Oh, I'll do more than let you watch, Agent Rumlow. Come, put on one of the suits. Let me show you how it works.”

 

The day is highly educational and he finds another of the asset's allies in Oparkov.

 

\--

 

Brock is back at the Vault at 0800 the next day; he stops before entering the sterile environment. The corner of Oparkov’s mouth turns up. Brock stands quietly to the side and watches. He can see the technicians, doctor, and nurses are taking their duties seriously. It's relieving to see he's not the only one who's treating the asset with decency, if not respect.

 

As before, everyone in the room is in full surgical suits and caps. Oparkov calls out, “Agent Rumlow, I'm going to have to ask you, once again, to put on a gown. The Soldier's immune system is highly vulnerable before it gets its vaccinations.”

 

“The asset is enhanced.” He's not being stubborn; he's just staying a fact and Oparkov realises this.

 

Oparkov's mouth tightens and Brock thinks that maybe it was supposed to be a smile, but is more of a grimace. “There's only so much strain even an enhanced body can take, Agent. I do the best I can to keep the body healthy and the mind calm, but the Soldier is only under my charge when it is in this room.” 

 

There is self-recrimination and more than a touch of disgust in the tone, though it is carefully hidden in the brisk cadence of a surgeon.

 

Brock turns and suits up. Brock may not be a doctor, but even he knows there's a vital piece of the outfit missing today. “No mask?” he asks the nurse getting dressed next to him.

 

“The Soldier appreciates seeing our faces. It's a health risk, but it helps the Soldier relax, so Oparkov enforces it.”

 

\--

 

Brock has spent the last three years perfecting his Russian for this moment. The tube opens, the asset slumps out entirely naked, and Oparkov catches him in a move that has been perfected by years of practice. Brock sees the muscles cord in Oparkov's body and wonders why no one goes over to help them. 

 

“<I've got you, Soldier. Welcome back.>”

 

The asset stays in Oparkov's arms for six minutes while he gets his muscles under control enough to stand. The others seem to take it as a matter of process and no one goes to assist them or move the Soldier to the exam table. Brock watches in fascination.

 

When the asset finally stands, Oparkov smiles at him. “<Well done, Soldier. Come. I have something I think you'll enjoy today.>”

 

Oparkov wraps an arm around the Soldier's torso and helps him stumble over to the padded table. A nurse hands over the IV line while another uncaps a line of syringes. Oparkov looks up. “<Ready, Soldier?>”

 

The asset give a shallow nod. Oparkov quickly inserts the IV needle, tapes over it, draws a vial of blood from another spot, and feeds the sixteen shots into the IV port as they are handed to him, one by one. Brock knows that only seven are to keep him from getting ill; the rest are a cocktail of drugs to keep his hormones balanced, get his insides working, and his mind and body from seizing up from the shock therapy crap/torture; the last one is a numbing agent that Brock knows Oparkov gives him because he isn't a dick and doesn't want him in pain. More things are done that Brock has a basic understanding of because of Oparkov’s tutorial yesterday, but that he couldn’t begin to explain. All kinds of tests on the body and the arm and the digestive tract and the mind.

 

“<Before we go further, I have someone I would like to introduce to you. I think you'll get along.> Agent Rumlow, if you would.” Brock steps to the side of and slightly behind Oparkov. The asset watches him as he watches the asset. “Soldier, this is Agent Brock Rumlow. He has been designated your new handler. He came down here yesterday to watch us set up and was here early this morning.” 

 

Brock takes in the asset assessing Oparkov's body language and realizes that how the doctor introduces the handlers tells the asset a lot of information. He knows the doctor is doing it on purpose, letting his patient know what he's in for. It also shows that the Soldier knows that Oparkov is looking out for him and that he trusts the doctor to some extent. Brock decides it's time to speak up. He looks the Soldier in the eyes and nods. “<Soldier, I admire your skill. I hope you'll find that we work well together.>”

 

The asset watches him with sharp eyes. Brock wonders what he's learning about him. A nurse hands Oparkov a glass --not glass, plastic -- and he hands it to the Soldier.

 

Oparkov speaks at him while continuing his medical check on his patient, who sucks his way through the same kind of liquid that is also being pumped into his IV.“We are giving the Soldier a nutrition shake to help the stomach regain a more natural size.” Brock receives a sharp glance. “The Soldier has a metabolism that runs at a rate four times faster than the average human. The asset is given 600-1000 milliliters of nutrition solution, either orally or intravenously, per day. The solution we provide for you is the only thing you will give the Soldier except clean water or organic juice. It is not to be forced to eat nor is it to be starved. I may not have much authority over the Soldier outside of this room, but I do have that much and, if I find you abusing its metabolism, l will go to Pierce and have you replaced. Understood?”

 

Brock was told this yesterday; he knows the recap is not for his benefit. Oparkov is presenting this, brisk and harsh, in front of the asset on purpose. To remind the asset that, while Oparkov may not be able to step in on the asset’s behalf on many things, he can do this and he will do this. The handler has been informed, the asset has been reminded, and the doctor has drawn his line in the sand.

 

It’s a line Brock won’t cross; he knows how quickly a body like that would begin to eat itself. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Good.” The asset hands the empty cup back and Oparkov finishes what he's doing. Its 1145; this is when he was told to arrive. Oparkov checks the clock in the wall and speaks. “Let's do the imprinting.”

 

Another syringe is handed over. It has been 90 minutes since the asset was thawed and already he looks so much better. “Agent Rumlow, you’ll need to remove your one of your gloves; the imprinting needs skin-on-skin, as well as eye contact.”

 

Brock pulls off the left latex and rolls up the sleeve; he’s glad he thoroughly washed his hands and arms. Oparkov feeds the fluid into the IV port and the asset hold out his right hand, palm down. Brock brings his own arm up under the asset’s and arranges them forearm to forearm, grasping at him slightly below the elbow and  expecting the asset to grasp back; he doesn’t. Brock keeps eye contact with the asset, but out of his periphery he can see the surprise cross the techs’ and nurses’ faces. He guesses most handlers don’t hold onto the asset this way then. It makes sense; it puts a very important joint under the asset’s powerful hand and the imperative to obey has not yet been ingrained. Most probably grip his wrist from the top, but, not only does that approach show control and not partnership, it shows a lack of trust. Brock will not be like his predecessors. In the corner of his eye, Brock sees Oparkov’s eyes sparking.

 

Brock smiles at the asset. “<Hello, Soldier.>” The asset must like what he sees because he grips the elbow under his fingertips lightly.

 

**\--**

 

Things move quickly after the imprinting. The IV is pulled out, asset performs a series of increasingly difficult bodily control exams, and is then handed sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and, not as oddly as one may think, a pair of the asset’s combat boots. They then all walk out of the sterile room, down the hallway, and into a shooting range. Brock knows this is where he should be giving orders, or more realistically before they even left the tank room, but he wants to see what the asset does on his own. 

 

The asset picks up weapon after weapon and hits the bullseye every time. When Oparkov says “that’s enough for us, Soldier”, the asset turns to Brock. “Well done, Soldier. That’s enough for right now.”

 

The asset puts the weapon down and stands loosely, waiting. One of the techs brings over a bag and hands it to Brock. “The Soldier’s tac gear, a set of civilian clothing that conceals the arm, and two sets of training gear, similar to what the Soldier is wearing now.”

 

Brock takes the bag. Oparkov speaks next. “Thirty liters of the Soldier’s solution has been prepared for you and delivered to the Soldier’s holding room. It may be given and stored at a variety of temperatures. It freezes at -27 Celsius and boils at 54 Celsius. You may give it after it have been frozen and thawed. You may not, under any circumstance, give the Soldier nutrition solution that has ever reached boiling point. It has a room-temperature shelf-life of ninety-three days. It remains viable indefinitely if frozen. The batch we have provided was made yesterday.” 

 

Brock knows all this, he heard it yesterday, but it’s good to hear it again. “Understood, sir.”

 

“Agent Rumlow.”

 

“Sir?”

 

A nurse walks over with an orange med bottle; it is unlabeled and filled with large pills, “The Soldier needs to take one of these orally once every twenty-four hours. If you run out, let me know and I will get you a refill. The Soldier  _ must _ receive the medication daily. The Soldier is familiar with this routine and is quite competent to take them of its own volition, if in the field without a handler or in the Storage Room.”

 

Brock sees the tightness in the dark blue eyes in front of him. Bad things happen when the soldier misses his meds. “I understand. I’ll make sure we never miss.”

 

The tightness in Oparkov’s eyes eases slightly at ‘we.’

 

\--

 

Next, he’s supposed to hose the asset down. Yesterday, he went to the room the dossier indicated many of the past handlers used for this task. There wasn’t anything in there but an industrial-grade fire hose, concrete, and a drain. Brock tells the asset to follow him and walks the opposite direction. 

 

He knows the asset knows they’re going the wrong way. The dossier stated the asset remembers everything except the specifics of missions; whatever they’re doing to his head, it’s to make him compliant, not amnesiac, though whatever he was before he became the Soldier is long gone. Brock wonders who he was before dismissing it; it doesn't matter who he was. There is no going back; this is who he is now and Brock is going to protect him as best as he can.

 

They reach a locker room. It’s empty. Brock walks in and the asset follows, like he was ordered.

 

“<Strip down for a shower, Soldier. Use the toilet, if necessary.>” Last night, Brock had contemplated the best way to go about this. Should he stay dressed while the asset is naked and vulnerable -- a display of the skewed power balance -- or should he strip entirely too -- the asset would probably, using his past experiences as a basis, come to the wrong conclusion. In the end, Brock had decided to choose a happy medium, so now he strips off his shirt, shoes, and socks without having to stop to think about it. 

 

He turns on the shower head to a warm-bordering-on-hot temperature. “<Come here, Soldier.>”

 

The asset walks over and stands under the water. He watches Brock with knife-sharp eyes and Brock feels cut apart and opened up under his gaze. He hands the asset a washcloth coated with soap. “<Clean yourself up, Soldier. Be thorough.>”

 

He is, Brock sees, capable of cleaning himself well, which just means his last handler refused to let him and didn’t do it himself. What a dick. The asset’s hair is limp with grease and cryo fluid. That one may be more difficult. 

 

“<Soldier.>” Ice-blue eyes snap up to him. “<Do you know how to thoroughly wash your hair?>”

 

He waits until the asset sees that he is, in fact, wanting an answer. “<Negative.>”

 

Brock holds in a sigh. “<Okay.>” He grabs the bottle of shampoo off the floor. “<Soldier, I am going to clean your hair.>” He runs through scenarios in his head quickly. “<I am going to stand in front of you, so you can see me. I will be less than a foot from your body. I am going to have my arms by the sides of your face and my hands will be in your hair. I am not attempting to hurt, punish, or discipline you. You will not attempt to harm me. The shampoo may sting, if it gets in your eyes, but whether you wish to keep your eyes opened or closed is your prerogative. Am I understood?>”

 

_ Prerogative _ , Brock chose that word on purpose.  _ A right or privilege exclusive to a certain group or class of people _ . He may not be able to free the asset from this place, but he can return to him something. After the life he’s been living, even small rights and privileges exclusive to the asset alone must be at least a little bit freeing.

 

A toneless, flat voice replies, “<Affirmative,>” but, when Brock steps into his personal space bubble and begins washing his hair for him, the asset does not look like he expects to be hit, so Brock counts explaining his actions before taking them as a success. The asset’s eyes remain open.

 

\--

 

The asset is dressed in a new set of sweatclothes. He has a short, but full beard and hair that comes below his armpits. At least the last three inches of it are dead and split. Brock does not shave him or attempt to cut his hair. He’ll leave that for when they’ve built a bit more trust. But until then…

 

“<Soldier.>” Cold eyes snap to him. He takes one of the elastic ties that he bought for this purpose off his wrist and holds it up and out. “<This is your prerogative: hair down or kept back out of your face.>”  

 

“<Out of the face.>” He does not reach for the tie, so, blatantly telegraphing his movements, Brock reaches behind the asset and puts his hair into a messy ponytail, but it’s the best he can do.

 

“<Status report: hair tie. Is it operational?>”

 

The asset considers for a moment. “<Status report: functional.>”

 

Well, all in all, that’s not too bad.

 

\--

 

The dossier gave directions to the asset’s “room,” little more than a cell. It is where the asset is to remain when not on a mission and without one of his authorized handlers in near vicinity. Basically, whenever Brock wants to leave, he needs to make sure the asset is locked up in here first and told to  _ stay _ . It is confining, but it also provides a measure of security for the asset, as no one but the handlers and the asset’s med team is allowed to enter this room when the asset is occupying it. Brock would thank God for small mercies if he thought God was the one handing them out.

 

They enter the asset’s room -- the _asset_ _storage room_ \-- and Brock closes the door behind them. There is a crate of nutrition solution, a grate in the floor, and nothing else.

 

The thing about the imprinting is: the asset cannot lie to him. The thing about the imprinting is: the asset is compelled to answer him when asked a direct question. The thing is: the asset has been trained to ignore bodily needs and stimuli and reaction. The thing is: that doesn’t mean the asset doesn’t feel them. The thing is: the asset is smart, brilliant, has to be to do what he does. The thing is: the asset knows what his body says it ought to do next. The thing is: the asset disregards the information as irrelevant until told he is allowed to use his own judgement.

 

“<Soldier.>” Diamond-sharp and laser-focused attention. “<This is your prerogative: sleep cycle or consciousness.>”

 

“<Sleep cycle.>” The voice is shredded velvet.

 

“<Soldier, this is your prerogative: my presence or my absence.>”

 

“<Your absence.>” There is a challenge hidden in the ruined fabric, a doubt that he will truly leave. 

 

“<The door will be locked from the outside; only Pierce, Oparkov, his team, and myself have the code to unlock it. You will remain in this room until I return in five hours. How you spend that time is your prerogative. Understood?>”

 

“<Affirmative.>”

 

Brock turns around and walks out, locking the door behind him.

 

\--

 

When he returns to the little, dull cell, the asset is kneeling in the center of the room, head bowed. Damn it, they were doing so well. Brock holds out the file in his hand. “<Soldier. Do what is required to read this mission briefing.>”

 

The asset stands up and prowls over to Brock before reaching out with his metal limb to take the folder. The asset stays in front of him and reads the file cover to cover. When he is finished, which takes considerably less time than if Brock were to read the whole thing, he closes the file and turns those devastating eyes back on Brock. “<Soldier. How would you plan to complete this mission?>”

 

The asset goes into a detailed plan, explains every step, gives an alternative to his alternative, and has a contingency for every possible hiccup, and then falls silent. “<An excellent plan, Soldier. We will implement it. We will set out at 0400 tomorrow. Is any action or item necessary or desired before we head out?>”

 

“<Negative.>”

 

“<Then rest up, Soldier. It is 1858. I will return at 0300 with your gear and the weapons you requested. The door will be locked from the outside and you will remain in this room until I return; how this time is spent is your prerogative.>”

 

The asset does not respond, but settles himself in a defensible corner. For the second time that day, Brock walks out and locks the door behind him.

 

\--

 

When Brock makes it back to the Vault in the middle of the night, he drops by the weapons’ locker to pick out the list of weapons the asset requested in addition to the usual array of knives, garrotes, and handguns that are to be strapped to the tac gear every time the asset goes out for a mission. He puts them all carefully into a duffle and then makes his way to the storage room. Wow, he needs to assign it a different name in his head. Maybe Tiny Cage for World’s Most Dangerous Mammal or Isolation Cell for Horrendous Trauma Survivor Used as Tool. Safe Spot for the Stockholm Syndrome Sextoy might be promising, except that Brock will not allow him to be a sexual party favor any longer.

 

He punches in the code, uses the fingerprint and retinal scanners, and waits for the door to slide open. The asset is once again kneeling in the center of the room, head down.  Brock waits for the door to close behind him before speaking. “<Morning, Soldier. Stand up.>” The asset rises smoothly to his feet. His eyes are black in the shadow-light that this room emits. “<This is your prerogative: relieve yourself.>”

 

“<Negative. The bladder was emptied 47 minutes ago.>” Brock glances at the grate in the floor. Brock doesn’t ask if he needs to shit; there’s nothing for him to shit out. 

 

“<Alright. It is time to get your daily smoothie. Soldier, your prerogative: receive the nutrition solution orally or intravenously.>”

 

“<Orally.>” Brock moves to the crate in the corner and pulls out one liter container of the liquid. It could easily pass as a cardboard juice container. “<Soldier. Time estimate of ingestion of one liter of liquid at a comfortable digestion rate for the body.>”

 

“<The body most easily digests the solution at an ingestion rate of approximately 15 milliliter sips over a period of 90 minutes. The body can digest an ingestion rate of 1000 milliliters over a period of 75 seconds. Side effects may include cramping, nausea, and lightheadedness.>”

 

Brock can work with that. “<Soldier, ingest the fluid in this container at the optimal digestion rate. It may begin here and finish once we are in the air.>” Brock hands over the carton after flipping open the rather intricately locked lid. He pulls out the tac gear and opens the duffle. “<Soldier.>” Black eyes pin him to the wall. “<Report: efficiency of the Soldier’s ability to apply its own tac gear and weaponry.>”

 

“<Highly efficient.>” 

 

“<Apply your gear, Soldier.>” The asset dresses with a speed that impresses Brock. Watching the asset as he disappears weapon after weapon into the black leather makes Brock blood run fast at the prowess. The last piece the Soldier puts on is the mask; he looks like something out of a nightmare and Brock swears to himself for the nth time that he is going to take good care of this weapon. The asset picks the carton back up and sets it on the floor by his handler’s feet, unable to take another sip out of the juice box.

 

“<Soldier. We are going to leave this room and get into a van. We will be transported to a hangar base where we will take a jet.  Is any other action or item necessary or desired before we depart?>”

 

“<Elastic status: non-functional. Reset.>” Brock moves forward, picks the hair tie out of where it’s tangled in the asset’s hair and looks up to meet the asset’s eyes. Black fades into cracked ice at the lack of distance. He tells the asset to stays still. He slowly lifts up his hands; the asset tracks them. He runs his fingers through the dark hair to get the snarls out. The asset does not move a muscle. 

 

When Brock is satisfied with the lack of tangles, he reaches around the asset’s head and pulls all the hair together at the base of his skull and wraps the elastic around it. Brock tries to pull the image of him as a boy braiding the hair of the girl who lived three houses over. His fingers work swiftly and he pulls another hair band off his wrist to secure the bottom. The end result is a sloppy, but tight braid that hopefully won’t come loose in the next 18 hours. He asks again, “<Is any other action or item necessary or desired before we depart?>”

 

“<Negative.>”

 

“<Soldier, follow me.>”

 

He picks up the juice box, walks out of the room, and locks the door, but this time the asset is behind him.   

 

\--

 

They make it to the jet. The pilot is making a delivery to the Chinese branch and is irritable about having passengers. He ignores them other than to say, “Buckle up and don’t bother me.”

 

They sit and Brock hands the nutrition solution back to the asset. “<Soldier, ingest at the rate of optimal digestion.>”

 

They perch on the uncomfortable bench in silence for the rest of the flight. 

 

\--

 

At their stop, the rear door opens and they jump. 

 

\--

 

Brock completes his mission while the asset does his job. 

 

They meet at the safe house two countries over and make their way to the pick-up location.

 

\--

 

The first mission is a stunning success.

 

\--

 

They walk through the Vault and the asset is being watched with hungry eyes. Brock does not make an invitation.

 

\--

 

The asset needs a training exercise. Brock walks him to the large gym and asks for twenty volunteers. There is an excess.

 

The asset cuts through them like so much water. When they’re all tapped out or on the floor, he says, “<Well done, Soldier. We’re leaving.>” 

 

The asset walks silently three steps behind him and slightly to the left.

 

\--

 

Elfias falls in beside him. “Just a tip, Rumlow, because you’re new at this and weren’t around long before the asset went back on ice, but most people don’t volunteer to get beaten up by the asset for no reason.”

 

Brock purposefully misunderstands. “I wouldn’t call the sharpening of Hydra’s finest weapon no reason, Elfias.”

 

“What I mean is: they usually get some kind of gratification out of it, usually, ah, physical or, um, sexual.”

 

Brock hums. “Well, that won’t be happening anymore. If the furtherment of Hydra is not enough of a reward, then they do not deserve the honor of working with the greatest accomplishment Hydra has produced.”

 

Brock quickens his pace and leaves Elfias gaping behind him.

 

\--

 

Brock takes the asset to the gym when it is mostly empty of people. The asset starts with simple stretches that get more and more complicated until Brock is not sure that what he’s doing is physically possible.

 

\--

 

Brock goes on four missions for SHIELD, two for Hydra, and one with the asset.

 

\--

 

The asset is on the shooting range, hitting every target while Brock completes paperwork on his tablet in the corner. Brock isn’t paying too much attention, but he does look up when some asshole plasters himself to the asset’s back and reaches around to grip the asset’s groin. 

 

Brock is about to make him back off when Asshole ends up on the floor, clutching at a clearly broken wrist. The asset stands loosely and does not move again. 

 

Asshole is gasping. “Gonna do something ‘bout this, Rumlow?”

 

Brock stares at him coolly. The other agents in the room are paying close attention. “I think the Soldier made the point quite clearly.”

 

“Wha-! It attacked me!”

 

Brock gives a chilling smile. “After you made an unauthorized advance. You’re lucky you got a broken wrist instead of bullet in the head.”

 

Asshole pales and Brock goes back to his reports. The asset lifts his gun and hits the target dead in the center.

 

\--

 

In the middle of July, the asset is sent on his third mission. It is big enough that they get teamed with Strike Team Alpha. It goes poorly.

 

Strike Team Alpha apparently did not get the memo. They are four days in and Brock would love to beat the tar out of them all, particularly West. 

 

\--

 

Brock walks into the kitchen to find the asset on his knees and West holding his stun baton to the asset’s neck. “--ucking tell you to do something, I expect it done.”

 

“West! Disengage!” West looks at him, baton still to the asset’s neck. “Now!”

 

West pulls off. Brock is seething. “You have overstepped yourself, West. Don’t let it happen again. You are not the Soldier’s handler and the Soldier doesn’t have to do shit for you.” Anson is watching by the sink. “Anson, you should have stepped in. West is breaking the chain-of-command and disregarding and defying direct orders to leave the Soldier to do its job in peace.”

 

\--

 

The mission is a success. Team dynamics are not. 

 

\--

 

Brock brings the asset a quart of organic grapefruit juice. “<Soldier. Your prerogative: drink the juice.>”

 

The asset tastes it gingerly before taking a large swig.

 

\--

 

They are sent out with Strike Team Alpha twice more. Things don’t get better, only worse.

 

\--

 

The asset is covered in mud. They shower. The asset is efficient and thorough as always. Brock washes his hair. The asset brushes his teeth. Brock combs and braids his dark hair and trims his nails. 

 

\--

 

In September, Brock puts in a request to choose his own strike team. Basis for the request: the current team undermines his work with the asset, ignores his authority when he is not in their presence, and causes strife while on missions. 

 

\--

 

No one volunteers to spar with the asset anymore and the Soldier needs an outlet. Brock inquires of the asset how many push-ups he can do. The asset gives an exact number. Brock doesn’t believe him, not that he thinks the asset is lying to him on purpose. The asset gets down and, for six hours forty-eight minutes, proves that he can do exactly 43,702 push-ups.

 

\--

  
The end of November has him, the asset, and the Strike Team in Kazakhstan. He tells the team to let the asset prepare and leave him alone and orders the asset to non-violence and restricts him to the safehouse. He leaves three hours after that to do his part of the mission. 

 

When he gets back twenty hours later, he can tell that someone has had their cock shoved down the asset’s throat. He doesn’t say anything except “<Soldier, status report: mission preparedness.>”

 

“<Preparations: complete.>” There is an empty juice box on the table. His lips are swollen and red; his voice is scratchier than usual. 

 

Brock does not let his lips press into a thin line. “<Soldier, begin mission.>”

 

The asset conceals the weapons he requested and disappears out the front door. West is a bit more smug than usual.

 

The mission takes two days and requires all of them in the field. It is freezing and dirty. 

 

They head back to the States. Brock sits next to the asset and oversees as he drinks three liters of nutrition solution. The others joke around at the front of the plane. The asset is ever silent and Brock does not speak at all.  

 

\--

 

The jet lands. Brock is furious. One simple order. How hard is it to follow. The rear door to the jet opens and Brock barks out, “All of you, follow me.”

 

They are filthy and Brock doesn’t give a damn. They make it to the gym; the agents already there look at them in confusion. 

 

“Take off your vest and weapons, West. Then get in the ring.”

 

Brock strips out of his own kevlar and hands his weapons off to the asset. West stands there, shocked. Brock snaps out again, “Now, West!”

 

West starts stripping down. Groud pipes up from a leg press. “What’s going on, Rumlow?”

 

Brock is too upset to speak. He steps onto the mat. West follows and speaks. “To tap out?”

 

Brock gives a nasty smile. “To incapacitation.” The men in the room look at each other askance.

 

Brock lets West get in stance before he strikes. West is good, but Brock is better. West is trying to knock him out, but Brock is trying to cause pain. He’s learned how to be very good at it.

 

By the time West can no longer get off the floor, he has two broken and four cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a broken wrist, two on-the-edge-of-being-torn ligaments in his knees, three broken fingers, swollen-shut eyes, a cracked jaw, a broken nose, and a lovely new complexion of purple and black.     

 

Brock would have taken it further if he didn’t think it would have gotten him more trouble than it was worth. He sneers at West, who is groaning in pain. “Next time I give an order regarding the asset, I expect it to be followed.”

 

He knows everyone in the gym heard it. He knows word will spread. Good. He bares him teeth at West in a parody of a smile before turning it on Anson. He looks at Anson, but he’s speaking to the room. “Don’t think you’re exempt.”

 

“<Soldier.>” The menacing shadow of the asset appears at his shoulder. “<We’re leaving.>”

 

Brock stalks out; the asset follows. 

 

\--

 

The high Level field agents don’t treat the asset poorly after that, but they don’t treat him well. They pretend he isn’t there at all.

 

Brock will take whatever success he can and be grateful for it. 

 

\--

 

West is too injured to go on missions for four weeks; Anson is cowed into obedience. Brock smiles at him darkly.

 

\--

 

West returns. He’s pissy, but he leaves the asset alone.


	3. 2008

**2008**

 

In January, he’s requested for a hearing in front of the higher ups. Pierce is there, as well as eight others. 

 

“Agent Rumlow, you’ve put in a request for a new strike team of your own choosing.”

 

“That’s correct.”

 

“Could you expound on your reasoning for us?”

 

“As I stated in my request, the current team, in particular Anson and West, do not respect my authority in handling the asset. They break the chain of command and outright dismiss my orders regarding the asset, who is, as you all know, under my direct jurisdiction.”

 

A blonde woman, he thinks her name is Brinks, speaks next, “What specifically do they ignore?”

 

“They attempt to order the asset to do menial, mission-unrelated tasks, such as cleaning their dishes and licking their boots clean. They speak to the asset in a highly unprofessional manner while on missions and at the base. They attempt unauthorized beatings and sexual abuse.”

 

A dark-haired man in glasses, Loaws, says, “I hear that you recently put West in the hospital.”

 

Brock can’t bring himself to be repentant, so he allows himself to look pleased instead. “That is correct. He directly defied my clearly-worded order to leave the asset alone so it can do its job. I returned from reconnaissance to find him having defied the order and finding sexual gratification in the asset. We completed the mission, then I took him to the mat when we returned. I thought a physical reminder to obey me regarding the asset might stick in head longer than a verbal one.”

 

Mason, who Brock knows has raped the asset before and enthusiastically, soothes out, “Sexual gratification is not a crime, Rumlow.”

 

“No, it isn’t. But he can fulfill his with someone at a bar, or a hooker, or his own gun in his off time. How he treats the weapon I am responsible for directly reflects on me, regardless of the fact whether or not we were on an op, which we were.”

 

Brock pauses before continuing. “There is conflict in the team, I simply wish to be assigned another. I have a list.” He steps forward and sets nine copies of his requests on the table. “They are all promising agents due for a promotion soon. They all speak Russian, which is the primary language the asset communicates in, with at least moderate fluency and they all are known for their success on covert operations.” And none of them have made Level 7, so they will have no prior knowledge of how the asset was treated.

 

Brinks looks at the list and Brock knows he has someone in his corner. “We will discuss this further. Thank you for your time, Agent Rumlow.”

 

Brock tilts his head in her direction and leaves the room.

 

\--

 

The asset is sent on two more missions. Neither Anson or West are sent out with them.

 

\--

 

In March, his request is approved and Rollins, Evans, Thurstson, and Young are promoted to Strike Team Omega, Level 7. The Winter Soldier and the Primary Handler are also reassigned to Strike Team Omega.

 

\--

 

The new team treats the asset with a wide berth and a healthy dose of respect on the first mission. They quickly catch on and imitate Brock’s actions in relation to the asset.

 

\--

 

Brock brings a chair into the Storage Room and fills out his reports while the asset sits at his feet, loose and relaxed and not alone.

 

\--

 

Rollins is the first to stop treating the asset with kid gloves. He grins at the asset in the hallway of the Vault and claps him on the shoulder. The asset does not snap his radius in half.

 

\--

 

Brock does some basic stretching with the asset. The asset’s eyes are the sky after a rainstorm.

 

\--

 

The asset sips at the daily measure of nutrition solution and Brock eats his burger. Thurston plops down across from them. He picks up his burrito and takes a large bite. “<Rumlow. Soldier. Lovely to see you both this fine and glorious day.>”

 

It is the middle of a hurricane, not that they can tell beneath six levels of concrete.

 

\--

 

The Soldier flips a knife around and around in his flesh hand. 

 

\--

 

The asset breaks the world record for sit-ups six times over. Brock’s abdominal muscles burn in sympathy.

 

\--

 

Brock becomes very accomplished at many types of hairstyles, but braids are the asset’s preference.

 

\--

 

The asset leans against Brock’s thigh and somehow Brock’s fingers end up tangled in his hair.

 

\--

 

The safe house is the basement of old, abandoned dance studio. Mirrors and bars cover the walls of the first floor. The have fourteen hours to kill after the mission.

The asset observes the once smooth dance floor from his periphery. 

 

“<Soldier. Your prerogative: activity during remaining time. Restriction: remain in the safehouse.>”

 

The Soldier takes off his boots and socks and begins stretching. After about twenty minutes of warming up, he begins some basic ballet steps. Soon he is dancing across the battered floor. 

 

Classical music fills the air and Young grins sheepishly at them, but the only thing that happens is Rollins creating a makeshift speaker. Brock doesn’t know the classical composers well at all, but something lovely and moving fills the dance studio. When the song is finished, another takes its place. 

 

The asset dances for thirteen and a half hours. Brock has never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

 

\--

 

They step out of the shower. “<Soldier, we are going to trim up your beard. Your prerogative: clean-shaven, scruff, or short beard. Your prerogative: trimming yourself or having me trim it. Your prerogative: haircut.>”

 

“<The asset will give itself a short beard. Haircut: negative.>”

 

Brock gets out the trimming scissors he bought for this purpose and hands them to the asset. The asset clips away at his beard. It ends up being perfectly uniform. 

 

“<Well done, Soldier. Your prerogative: hair containment or lack thereof.>”

 

“<Containment: braid.>”

 

The asset stays still and does not twitch when Brock moves behind him, watching him in the mirror. Brock puts his newly relearned knowledge of French braids to work. It ends up tight and even and the asset’s eyes soften the slightest touch. 

 

“<All done, Soldier. Time for dinner.>”

 

They retreat to the relative safety of the cell.

 

Brock braids, unbraids, braids, unbraids, braids. They sit there together, not sleeping, until Brock has to leave to go to SHIELD.

 

\--

 

They climb in the jet that’s waiting for them across the border. Somehow, Evans ends up telling a fairytale, original Grimms version. At the end, Thurstson gets out, “<Pftt, amatuer. Watch and learn,>” before launching into a Nordic myth.

 

They make their way around the plane, rating and being rated. “<Rumlow, you’re up.>”

 

Brock tells the only story that comes to mind. “<Oh, that was good.>”

 

“<Quite impressive. I’m impressed. I didn’t know your voice could hit that pitch, Rumlow.>”

 

Brock smirks. “<As we can all see, I’ve found my true calling in life.>”

 

The asset snorts and then he’s laughing and Brock has never been so proud of himself. “<That was terrible.>”

 

The Soldier immediately goes blank after that, as if he’s spoken out of turn and is going to be punished. Brock rejoins with, “<If you’re going to cast judgement, you have to tell a story, Soldier.>”

 

So the Soldier does. It’s a Russian folktale. The Soldier is an excellent storyteller. It’s terrifying. 

 

They all agree the asset won the competition and the asset’s eyes shine with pride.

 

\--

 

Brock takes some vacations days from SHIELD. He gets permission to take the asset to the Grand Canyon for a training exercise.

 

Brock learns just how far the asset can make a controlled fall without damaging himself. The asset’s eyes are Caribbean blue; he is relaxed with the adrenaline and the danger and the lack of death.

 

\--

 

Young gets shot in the thigh while out with the Soldier. His comm got lost in the scuffle. The asset carries him back over his shoulder for eleven miles instead of leaving him in the middle of the forest to bleed out.

 

Brock gets called into a meeting with the higher-ups shortly after. They commend him for his work, tell him the asset has never before saved the life of a Hydra operative without being ordered to do so. 

 

Brock gets drunk that night.

 

\--

  
Young carries around small boxes of organic juice for the asset after that. He buys different flavors and the asset never asks for a container but always drinks the whole thing when Young hands one to him.  


	4. 2009

**2009**

 

The asset returns to the safe house once the mission in complete. Brock grins at him before the expression freezes on his face. The others cannot read the asset like him, but even they can tell something is very wrong. The asset would not return if the objective was not accomplished. He should not have been injured, but, then again, the Black Widow was the security escort. “<Soldier. Physical status report.>”

 

“<Injuries acquired: none. Experiencing intense nausea.>”

 

Brock is going to take care of the result before addressing the cause. “<Soldier. Your prerogative: how to deal with the nausea.>”

 

The asset strides to the bathroom and pukes his guts out. The STRIKE team looks at each other in varying levels of concern. It should not be possible for the asset to vomit up this much, considering he doesn’t actually eat. Brock quickly pulls out a litre of nutrition solution and a quart of organic apple juice. The asset will need to replenish. 

 

When the asset strides out of the bathroom, Brock points at the chair, table, and liquid. “<Sit. Drink at an optimal rate for current emotional and physical levels.>”

 

The entire STRIKE team sits around the table while the asset drinks. Rollins starts low chatter in Russian with Evans and the rest of the team joins in; the asset relaxes but continues to look ill.  

 

Two hours later, both containers of liquid are empty. The small talk dies off. “<Soldier. Report: origin and cause of illness.>”

 

The asset is visibly recalling another time and place, eyes glazed. Brock hasn’t seen the asset like this since he walked in on the gang rape. Not even then. Then the asset’s eyes were dead; here they’re simply somewhere else. The shredded velvet of the asset’s voice has been replaced with water-smooth silk. “<Natalia Alianova Romanova.>” They all start. Brock starts mentally cursing the Widow before realising that he did not use her English alias, not that he should know it in the first place. Brock is filled with horror. The asset starts twitching. The voice becomes harsher, rough denim. “<Spiderlings. The asset’s girls.>” The team is frozen in realization and the asset continues twitching. Starched cotton. “<The dog is not to harm my girls. It may be the best, but there is a reason attack dogs do not live in the house with children.>” Thick wool. “<Injure those girls outside of training and there will be harsh consequences, Soldier.>” Crude burlap. “<Little girl obsession. The red one is making an attachment.>” Silk of a different weave, different color. “<It’s my turn to braid his hair, Yelena!>” Different weave, different color. “<Yasha, why does Natalia always get to sleep in bed with you instead of taking turns like the rest of us?>” Different weave, different color. “<Did you see that, Yasha? I did it! I did it!>” Different weave, different color. “<I killed the man today, Yasha. He never saw it coming. Then I slit his children's throats. The mistress said it was a perfect mission.>” Different weave, different color. “Yasha, I want you to stay with us forever.>” Thin polyester. “<Well done, Soldier. These girls will be the highest quality Widows the program has ever produced.>” Bright gingham. “Your mission is complete here, Soldier. Wipe it.>” Water-smooth silk. “<Your name is Yasha. And Natalia Alianova Romanova loves you.>”

  
  


The asset falls silent and none of the rest of them can move a muscle. Shredded velvet. “<To complete mission objective, the asset terminated the target by shooting through a Spiderling. Natalia.>” The asset is shaking. 

 

Brock stands and tells the asset to follow him before sitting on the couch. 

 

The asset sits at his feet. Brock sets his hands gently on the asset’s head and the asset melts into his calf. The team gives them weird looks, but remain silent until Rollins speaks up. “This never happened. Romanoff was injured. The target has been taken out. That’s all.”

 

The rest of the team nods. Brock pets the asset’s head for five hours before he stops shaking and passes out on Brock’s knee.

 

\--

 

Brock takes the asset to the gym as often as possible. He watches the asset beat the shit out of anything that is placed in front of him, wearing himself into the ground. The image of his spiderling -- his favorite spiderling, it would seem -- bleeding out weighs heavily on him. Brock cannot reassure him; Romanoff made it out of the med bay ridiculously quickly. He would have thought that she hated hospitals -- not uncommon -- or that she wasn’t as wounded as it appeared. He wonders now if she is enhanced.  _ The asset’s girls. _

 

Later, when the asset is safely locked in his cell. Brock goes searching for the asset’s full files in an almost forgotten, but securely locked room where Hydra keeps the files too important to risk putting on digital memory. The asset’s file is thick, very thick. The fifteen page dossier he received when he was appointed Primary Handler doesn’t contain a hundredth of the information. The file references other files: the chair, the cryotank, the files of the men who created all of them. All of these are on paper; Hydra won’t take the risk of a hack. 

 

He flips through page after page after page, going back further and further in time, sifting through horror after horror listed in concise, clinical terminology. 

 

He finds it. The asset spent a year training the Widow program participants. He was there in 1968. 

 

Brock closes the file and puts it away. He leaves the room as if he was never there at all.

 

\--

 

When Brock can take the asset’s fury and anguish no longer, he does something that has every other operative in the gym staring at him in disbelief once they put together what he’s doing. They all surreptitiously watch the asset when the asset is in the room, now that Brock does not allow them to abuse him.   “<Soldier, spar with me.>”

 

The Soldier does not pause, does not question a direct order, simply drops into a fighting stance. Brock follows and the others in the room stop pretending to not be paying close attention. Someone, Swenton, hisses, “What are you doing, Rumlow?”

 

Brock ignores them all, even if he can see some of them going for their stun batons. No Primary Handler, American handler anyway, has done this before because the asset would tear them apart; it breaks the chain of command. Brock trusts the asset enough to fight with him, knowing the asset could snap his neck as easily as anything. Trusts the asset enough to let the asset take his hurt out on Brock without actually damaging him.

 

He could order the asset to limits, to first blood, to yield, to unconsciousness. 

 

He doesn’t.  He drops into stance and the fight begins.

 

\--

 

Brock is having the most fun he can ever recall experiencing. The movements are quick and brutal and the asset isn’t holding back or pulling his punches, but neither is he going in for the final hit. The asset is enjoying this, likes the one-on-one and that his opponent is able to hold his own for the most part. 

 

Brock is going to end up on the floor eventually; he knows when he’s outmatched. He’s exhausted and in pain. He keeps fighting. The asset’s eyes burn with life. 

 

\--

 

When Brock wakes up, he is sitting propped in a corner on the floor and the asset is in a defensive stance in front of him. What? Why? Damn, his head hurts. He can hear yelling and forces himself to focus. 

 

Brock and the asset are backed into the corner by his co-workers, who have their stun batons on and their guns raised, safeties off. Brock forces out, “Stand down.”

 

“You heard your handler! Stand down, asset!”

 

“Not the Soldier, numbskull. You trigger happy morons.” He groans as he pushes himself up and the asset backs up as soon as Brock’s standing, so they’re chest to back and Brock is completely encased -- and protected from bullets -- on all sides. He sees some of them put their weapons down, but not all, not enough. 

 

The asset growls. “Put your weapons down,” Brock snaps. “That’s an order.”

 

Uneasily, the rest comply. “<Soldier, let me out. You’ve done well.>” 

 

The asset steps away immediately, but not far. Brock stands in front of the men who watch the asset with narrowed eyes. Brock raises his voice to address everyone in the gym. “Since when did a sparring match end in drawn weapons? How I deal with the asset is none of your concern. You all saw me order this match. It was not your place to interfere.”

 

Ruthford speaks out, “You were unconscious, Rumlow.”

 

“Yes, I was. Did the asset kill me?” The room is silent, but that is not enough. “I asked you a question, Ruthford.’

 

“No.” Brock takes in the pristine set up of the rest of the gym and the lack of any asset inflicted damage.

 

“Did the asset attack anyone after I was out?”

 

No one speaks. Brock is so sick of this. “Speak up.”

 

“No, Rumlow.” A man sitting on the bench press calls out. Walters. “The asset knelt to check your pulse. These guys pulled their weapons and you suddenly had your own personal guard dog.”

 

“I see. The asset was following a direct order from the Primary Handler. The asset then took a defensive stance in front of its unconscious handler from an armed threat, as it should. You should thank your lucky stars for the fact that the Soldier didn’t kill you all for what it saw as a threat to me. You exacerbated a friendly, safe environment to a hostile threat.” Brock takes a deep breath and tamps down his temper. “The next time the asset and I take it to the mat -- and there will be a next time -- this will not be a problem again. Am I clear?” He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer. “<Soldier, we’re going to the showers.>”

\--

 

Evans finds him at the SHIELD cafeteria. He puts his food down and settles at the table. “I hear you made quite the stir the other day.”

 

Brock hums around his sandwich.

 

Evans picks up his burger and starts talking about the Red Wings game. They pass a nice lunch together.

 

\--

 

Six weeks pass before they are out on another mission, before Brock is permitted to take the asset out of the base and to somewhere that does not have surveillance. Before the asset leaves for his target, Brock mutters to him in Russian while the STRIKE team talks accidentally-too-loud-on-purpose in English not five feet away. “<The spiderling is fine. Bullet to the lower left abdominal. Med file says she healed with no lasting injuries.>”

 

Tension the asset has been carrying slips off his charge’s form. The asset leaves 70 minutes later. He returns 19 hours after that. Mission complete. No casualties.

 

\--

 

Brock is sent on solo missions, group mission, quickly-becoming-more-frequent missions with the asset. He’s killing people for crimes they haven’t yet committed, creating chaos and fear, not the order and freedom he was told he’d help create.

 

What on earth was he thinking when he accepted? SHIELD or Hydra, what was he thinking? He would burn it down if he could and leave with the asset. 

 

But he can’t. So he completes the mission before returning to the Vault and slipping into the asset’s cell. He sleeps there, slumped in a corner, the asset keeping watch at his side.

 

\--

 

Brock trims his asset’s hair of dead ends. It falls to his waist in a thick, dark curtain. He brushes it thoroughly while the asset purrs in contentment. 

 

After four hours of brushing, he puts it up in an intricate basket braid that pins the asset’s hair off his neck.

 

He puts it back in a French braid before they leave the cell in the morning.

\--

 

Brock is not teamed with Romanoff often. They don’t get along well. So when he needles her on the flight back, she does not take special note of it. “Heard you took a hit a couple months back.”

 

She gives him a flat look.

 

“Must have been some assassin to get past you.”

 

Her lips curl upwards slightly. It’s terrifying. Her voice is cold steel, but all he can hear is the asset’s water-smooth  _ Natalia Alianova Romanova loves you _ silk. “I’m going to find him.”

 

Him, not them. Romanoff would not assign a gender unless she knew the gender, which means she saw the asset. She is not looking; she is hunting.

 

If the time ever comes where Hydra is weak enough to not be able to hunt down their finest weapon, Brock will return to her.  _ The red one is making an attachment _ .  

 

\--

 

Brock fills out reports in the large room full of undesignated cubicles. There aren’t enough desks for all of the agents who make their way through here and none are here with enough regularity to assign cubicles. The private offices are somewhere else. Brock has one; he rarely uses it. It reminds him of the asset’s cell.

 

So here they sit in a big room with flimsy, half-walls. Brock is logged on to his reports on the computer on the desk, sitting in a rather comfortable chair. The asset sits backwards at his feet, surveying those around them. Most don’t register him at all; some give a stutter step before continuing on with their work.

\--

 

The asset has not had to be wiped since Brock took the position of Primary Handler. They do it to keep him compliant; he’s compliant with Brock. No need to waste money on an expensive procedure when it is not truly necessary. 

 

He saves Hydra a lot of money. They like him -- a lot. Even if his methods are not “conventional,” they work, so the upper crust lets him continue his “good work.” 

 

He almost put bullets in the board’s collective heads the day they had that conversation. But they will leave him alone with his “unusual methods” as long as the asset “continues in its submissive behavior.”

 

He will take all the slack that is offered to him with greedy hands.

 

\--

 

The Soldier’s arm is due for a tune up. Brock is curious as to how it works. The tech shows him as she replaces some gears. He sees two trackers and timed chemical release triggers. She shows him the cooling and how to make minor repairs. She tells him to be careful because it’s attached to the asset’s nerves and they don’t want to damage his reaction time or nervous system.

 

Brock has to restrain a derisive snort.

 

\--

Missions and months pass. 

 

Brock finds himself sleeping in the asset’s cell too often. The asset is ever watchful at his side, creeping ever closer.


	5. 2010

**2010**

 

Rollins and the asset walk through the door of a safehouse in the backside of Iran, at ease with each other, and pull Brock from his thoughts. “<Hey, Soldier.>”

 

The asset strides over and settles at Brock’s ankles; his hands automatically gets lost in the asset’s hair. Rollins raises an eyebrow, more for show than any real surprise, before opening the fridge.

 

\--

 

The higher ups have sent the asset on more missions in the last three years than in the nine prior to it combined. If they continue at this rate, before the year is out he will eclipse the number of missions in all thirteen years before Brock took over as handler. They must be planning something.

 

The Soldier used to be reserved for highest priority kills that needed to be either untraceable or that were set up by the asset to make a certain party take the blame. They are changing his use. He is being used to cause large-scale chaos and sow wide-spread fear. They all are. 

 

There is a plan in play to for which he does not have the authorization to know, but he can so easily see the results.

 

The asset is a well-honed knife, not a bludgeoning hammer.

 

He doesn’t like it.

 

\--

 

They test how quietly Brock can speak and still have the asset comprehend. They test how far away the asset can stand and still hear at varying volumes. 

 

Brock learns how to speak without moving his mouth.

 

Brock learns how to speak at a subvocal.

 

\--

 

He wakes up in the cell to find the asset laying on the floor instead of sitting by Brock’s side. He is using his handler’s thigh as a pillow.

 

Brock does not make him move.

 

\--

 

It becomes Standard Resting Procedure whenever Brock is in the cell, which is more often than not these days.

\--

 

It becomes such a common occurrence that no Hydra agent even twitches for a weapon anymore when the asset forces its handler to the floor in the gym. If Rumlow ends up unconscious, they do not approach; they don’t want the attack dog turned guard dog to turn rabid dog. The asset crouches at its handler’s side until Rumlow wakes up, watching the room with wary, dangerous eyes. 

 

\--

 

Evans brings a Rubik’s cube for the asset. “<Here, Soldier. The room must be boring. You try to manipulate it so that the colors match on all the sides.>”

 

The asset is ecstatic. 

 

He figures it out -- solves it -- much faster than they were planning. He solves it again and again and again. 

 

Evans brings three more, all different kinds. The corners of the asset’s mouth turn up.

 

\--

 

They eclipse the total. 

  
By quite a lot.


	6. 2011

**2011**

 

The mission is complete; the asset has returned to the safe house, deadly and whole. The asset walks through the door and immediately settles on his knees at Brock’s feet, alert but the most relaxed he’s been in 48 hours. Brock runs his fingers through the asset’s hair and the asset rests his head on Brock’s thigh. The STRIKE team no longer bats an eyelash. “<Well done, Soldier. Your prerogative: sleep cycle or consciousness. Your prerogative: location. Restriction: remain inside the safe house.>”

 

The asset falls asleep on his knees, head on his handler’s thigh and Brock’s fingers in his hair.

 

\--

 

It is habit. One he cannot bring himself to break.

 

\--

 

Thurstson and the Soldier are a devastating pair when it comes to long distance shots. In the Finnish laplands, Brock walks out to find the asset and Thurstson deep in discussion about angles and wind speed, two sniper rifles set up between them and a target in the distance that he cannot see.

 

\--

 

Whenever he is not killing for SHIELD, he is killing for Hydra. 

 

His world is red and stinks of death. He cannot leave it.

 

The asset’s eyes are blue-gray and his hair smells like Brock’s shampoo. He cannot take it.

 

\--

 

Brock falls into the bed at the safehouse in the Congo, still wet from the shower. The mission was much more strenuous than he thought it would be. Rollins is already out in the second bed. The asset climbs in after Brock and curls up at his back. They sleep.

 

\--

 

Asset mission frequency only rises. He wonders why they assign such menial tasks to the asset’s mastery, but it keeps him out of the little cell. Brock does not complain.

 

\-- 

  
The asset can solve the largest cube with one hand, eyes shut, in four minutes.


	7. 2012

**2012**

 

Nine days after Captain America wakes from being found in the ice, the order comes for the asset to be put back in cryostasis. 

 

This is the longest period of time the asset has been unfrozen since he was sold to the Americans.

 

The asset does not fight the chamber, but his heart rate is through the roof, his pupils blot out any eye color, and he is paler than a corpse. The lid closes and the asset is frozen in his terror.

 

Brock is shattered.

 

\--

 

New York happens.

 

\--

 

The order to unfreeze the asset never comes.

 

\--

 

Brock is on Rogers’ team; more accurately, Rogers is often assigned to Brock’s STRIKE team. Brock wants to hate him. He knows that the asset has been put away because of something related to Rogers. He holds it against him, but, unfortunately, he likes Rogers. 

 

Worse, Rogers is a weapon just as much as the asset and SHIELD is mishandling him. It’s plain to see that Rogers is not dealing well; no way he’d pass a psych eval. Psych evals are mandatory after every mission. Someone up high -- probably Fury -- is signing off on Rogers being on missions, where he so obviously should not be. Never give a power hungry organisation the opportunity to utilize an organic, sentient weapon because they sure won’t be treated like a human. 

 

Brock is pissed. He takes Rogers under his wing as much -- as subtly -- as he can, but Brock can only be spread so far and Rogers still has his autonomy. At the moment. 

 

\--

 

Thurston gives him a collection of old Russian folktales for his birthday. 

His grin is just a little pained. “Couldn’t let you miss your calling in life.”

 

Brock cherishes the book, no matter that it feels like he’s pulling out his own intestines when he reads it.

 

\--

 

Rogers goes on missions with the Avengers once in a blue moon. He always comes back relaxed and wearing an easy grin that only lasts a day.

 

Brock thinks Rogers should resign, or at least transfer to the Avengers full-time, and move to New York. The man has done his duty for his country; he doesn’t owe anymore. Let him be done. The people in authority don’t agree.

  
Brock wonders if he’s thinking about Rogers or the asset or if they are actually separate at all.


	8. 2013

**2013**

 

Project Insight, it’s called. That’s why Pierce called him here. That’s what they’ve been gearing up to accomplish. When it’s up and running, the asset will no longer be necessary, millions will be killed at a time, and Hydra will rule the world. Brock wonders what it says about him that he’s more concerned about the asset than about the rest of it combined. No, he knows what it says; he just doesn’t care. 

 

Pierce continues speaking, “We were going to shut down the Winter Soldier program and decommission the asset. However, due to your remarkable ability to connect with the asset and its loyalty to you, we’ve reconsidered.”

 

Brock knows Pierce wants Brock to hang himself, so Brock stays silent, face neutral and attentive. Pierce smiles. It’s friendly and proud and it makes Brock want to shiver.

 

“Agent Rumlow, we’d like for you to continue handling the asset after Project Insight makes it off the ground. This would be your primary occupation for as long as we decide to keep the asset active. All funding to that project will be cut; however, seeing as how the Soldier did not need any reconditioning while in your care, the only thing it will affect will be the asset’s nutrition source. That is not a great expense and I can authorize a small account for it. Oparkov tells me you know how to repair the prosthetic, if necessary.”

 

Brock nods. “That’s correct, sir.”  

 

“Very well. If you accept this position, the asset will remain active until its conditioning begins to break down, at which time it will be decommissioned. Any questions?”

 

“More of a request, sir.”

 

Pierce tilts his head back slightly. “Let’s hear it, Agent.”

 

“I’d like to request permission to remove the asset from the compound when I leave. It would be more beneficial to keep it by my person than in the storage room and the conditioning would last longer.”

 

Pierce sits quietly for a few moments and Brock is afraid he’s just shown his hand. “I assume that is why you stayed in the asset’s room more and more frequently the longer it stayed active.”   
  


Damn! Damndamnshitfuck. “The asset responds better to my constant presence, yes. It will only enhance the asset’s performance and loyalty to our organisation, particularly if the conditioning budget is going to be scrapped.”

 

Pierce smiles again. “It increases the asset’s loyalty to you, you mean.” Brock refuses to move a muscle. “Do you know why I chose you to be the Primary Handler, Rumlow? It was intentional.” Pierce doesn't expound. “I do not mind that the Soldier’s loyalty is to you, as long as your loyalty is to us.” It’s a threat; no, a warning, not a threat, not yet.

 

“You have been an incredible operative for us, Rumlow, and shown your loyalty again and again. As long as this continues, I see no reasons why the asset may not leave with you, once Project Insight is off the ground.” Not a warning, a bribe, even if Pierce doesn’t know it.

 

“Of course, Director.” 

 

“Anything else you’d like to cover?”

 

“No, sir. This was very informative. Thank you.”

 

Pierce hums. “Very well; we’re done here then. You are dismissed, Agent.”   
  
Brock nods. “Director.” He turns and exits the office. He cannot decide whether he is terrified or ecstatic.

 

\--

 

Brock and Rogers go to the Smithsonian exhibit. Brock was trying to get Rogers out doing something, integrating with actual people in this century and this is the only thing that Rogers would deign to do, so here they are. 

 

They are being followed, not even subtly, by undercover operatives from multiple organisations. It grates on his skin. Rogers doesn’t react to it at all, but Brock knows Rogers knows because the asset would know. Rogers is much smarter and more aware than he lets on in his aw-shucks-40s act.

 

Rogers walks to the center of the exhibit and stares at the man pictured there silently. Brock’s neck snaps up. No fucking way. Absolutely not possible. James Buchanan Barnes. Rogers is completely shut down, steel exterior, no expression. Brock is trying to wrap his head around this. Fuck his life.

 

\--

 

He’d love to trust Rogers with his knowledge, ease Rogers’ sorrow, give him a goal to pull him out of his depression. But he won’t. He won’t because, as much as he likes Rogers, he’s only one man. Rogers is only one man and Brock is so close to having the asset out of there. 

 

If it comes down to Rogers or the asset, and he’s sure it will, there is no choice for him. The asset is his first priority. Unless Rogers can take down Hydra single-handedly, the asset is staying his little secret. And, you know what, add SHIELD to that list too. Because he wouldn’t let SHIELD touch his Soldier with a ten-foot pole. 

 

Rogers is one man; he may be enhanced, but so is the asset, and look at the asset now: frozen solid because Rogers thawed out. Hatred sparks again in his gut. Who it’s directed at, he isn’t sure. 

 

So no. The asset is his to keep and Rogers can’t have him. 

 

\--

 

Young falls in beside him as he makes his way down a SHIELD corridor. 

 

“Have you managed to go to the Smithsonian exhibit yet?”

 

Brock doesn’t stiffen. “Yes.”

 

“I thought it was very informative.”

 

“You and me both.”

 

“Should I tell the others to go?”

 

Brock considers. “May as well.”

 

Young peels off at the next hallway.

 

\--

 

Brock drags Rogers out to a bar, demanding he sit and have a damn beer around other people, even if he refuses to socialize. And no,  _ I don’t care that alcohol doesn’t affect you anymore, Rogers. _ At first, it seemed like a good idea. But Brock sees why Rogers never leaves his apartment except to go to work or exercise. There are operatives from no less than seventeen international intelligence agencies and Brock knows that Rogers knows. It’s uncomfortable and hard to relax. 

 

He speaks without moving his mouth. “Wanna shake ‘em?”

 

Rogers moves his head down almost imperceptibly.

 

“Got any internalized trackers?”

 

“Can’t. I reject them.” Good to know. He files it away.

 

“Act offended. Take me out back for a fight. Knock me unconscious. Run. Don’t let them catch up.”

 

Rogers makes no indication that he heard, but Brock knows he did because the asset can hear him speak at that volume from eleven meters away. Brock drinks nine shots of hard liquor in short succession while he and Rogers make meaningless chatter. He acts increasingly more intoxicated and flirty. 

 

He can see his actions are making some of their watchers uncomfortable. Good. Don’t make assumptions about someone based on their time period and legend. He downs another shot. He moves into Rogers personal space and sees him tensing up. He knows when Rogers is uncomfortable or on alert; he loosens and moves like a panther.

 

He grabs Rogers around the back of the neck and kisses him, full on with tongue. He receives a solid shove and a “What the hell!”. 

 

Before his seemingly intoxicated mind can form a response, Rogers is dragging him out behind the bar. Only six of their observers move to follow them immediately. As soon as they make it outside, Brock drawls out in a drunken fashion, “Come on, Rogers. It’s nothing personal.”

 

Rogers hits him hard enough in the face to knock him unconscious without cracking his skull or breaking his neck. Rogers is running before Brock hits the ground.

 

\--

 

Brock goes to work on Monday with bruising fading along his temple. He passes Rogers, who looks more relaxed than Brock’s ever seen him with the exception of when he’s covered in sweat and surrounded by dead bodies. Guess a few hours without constant surveillance will do that to a guy. He catches his eyes and raises his eyebrows. Rogers sends him a smirk and strolls over.

 

“How’s your head?”

 

“You know, me being knocked out is more common than one might think. You get to unwind a bit?”

 

Rogers knows what he’s asking. Did it work? Did you lose them? Did you get a few goddamn hours outside of the fishbowl?

 

Rogers rolls his shoulders and grins, small but genuine. “Yeah. Thanks.”

 

The headache was so worth it.

 

\--

 

He is eating lunch at a Mongolian restaurant when Oparkov slides into the booth across from him. Brock raises his eyebrows. Oparkov fiddles with his napkin before setting it down. “The starving must be weaned back into a normal diet, lest they become ill. In a pinch, a 1.6 kilograms of a powered elemental formula, like Vivonex, can be dissolved into water for a short term solution.”

 

Brock watches him, slightly confused. “Thank you. For taking your responsibilities so seriously. Both of us are grateful. Should you ever need a favor, no matter the. . . size, contact me.” 

 

He drums his fingers on the napkin before he gets up and walks out. 

 

Brock finishes his meal. He puts his napkin concealing the microdrive in his pocket before he leaves.

 

\--

 

Romanoff keeps pushing women at Rogers. Rogers keeps denying her. Brock wants to tell her to stop, that she should get him away from SHIELD as fast as she possibly can. He doesn’t. 

 

Captain America is sent on mission after mission after mission after mission. Captain America is SHIELD’s ace in the hole. Captain America is good for PR. Captain America holds sway and gets bills passed. Captain America gets funding. Captain America is efficient and unbreakable. Captain America does not need a therapist. Captain America is hearty and healthy and hale.

 

Steve Rogers is disappearing.

 

\--

 

Evans goes on an undercover op with him in Slovakia. They speak Russian and remember what they have lost.

\--

 

Brock passes a street preacher in Seattle. The man proclaims loudly, “She weeps sorely in the night, her tears are on her cheeks; among all her lovers, she has none to comfort her. All her friends have dealt treacherously with her; they have become her enemies.”

 

Brock knows enough of the Bible to know why this verse happens. He wonders why God is angry with Steve Rogers.

 

An image of Rogers standing before Barnes’ shrine pops into his mind.  _ You shall have no other gods before me _ .

 

\--

 

Rogers is at his apartment if he isn’t at SHIELD. There is relative privacy there. Bugs, but no people, no cameras. 

 

Brock watches Rogers drown in his depression. He thinks maybe this will kill him where the Atlantic could not.

 

\--

 

Rollins meets him at the predetermined spot in Brazil -- a nondescript cafe with the best deep-fried bananas Brock has ever had in his life. 

 

“I miss him sometimes.”

 

Brock swallows his mouthful of fruity goodness, gone to ash on his tongue. “Yeah, me too.”

\--

 

They are on a flight back from a long, weird, but ultimately successful op when Rogers says, abruptly and quietly, “They should have left me in the ice.”

 

He reaches out and grips Rogers’ shoulder and pretends he doesn’t notice how Rogers leans into the contact. Brock doesn’t say anything, but he thinks of the asset -- paler than death, grey eyes black with fear, frozen in his nightmares in a box that is not his coffin -- and he thinks they should have left Rogers in the ice too.

 

\--

 

Brock gets his hands on a high-res, smaller-than-his-pinky-nail camera with a removable microdrive. Large memory. Not connected to the net in any form. Impossible to hack. 

 

\--

 

Brock has done the math. The asset has been awake and active for a total of twenty-four years. The marks on his body are from abuse, not age. The man in the tank physically is not a day older than the man in the photo at the Smithsonian. 

 

Brock wonders if Rogers knows he’s never going to get to die from old age.

 

\--

 

It takes him eleven hours, but he gets a picture of every single page from the asset’s file, every page from any file or operations manual or specs that is referenced. Oparkov knew what he was doing; the nutrition and the meds are referenced again and again -- highlighted as exceptionally important-- a component listed here and statement on an improvement there. The full formulas themselves are not listed anywhere.

 

He leaves the file room. He stores the camera drive with Oparkov’s microdrive in a weather-proof, fire-proof, explosion-resistant, locking case in one of his hidey-holes in his apartment.

 

\--

 

He lets himself into Rogers’ apartment to find three empty bottles of sedatives on the counter. He strides to the bedroom. It’s empty. The bathroom door is locked. He forces it open.

 

Rogers is unconcious in the tub. There’s a knife on the toilet. Roger’s forearms and the bottom of the bath are covered in blood. The slices have healed as if they were never there. 

 

He starts the water and takes care of Rogers the way he’d take care of the asset. When the evidence of Rogers’ suicide attempt is down the drain or in Brock’s pockets, Brock peels Rogers out of his clothes and carries him to his bed after ensuring the bedroom blinds are closed. Brock throws the sodden, bloody clothes in the wash. 

 

Rogers wakes. He makes a broken sound Brock knows he wasn’t meant to hear. He moves into Rogers’ eyeline. He holds a finger to his mouth before Rogers can speak. Rogers nods; he knows the apartment is bugged then. 

 

Rogers’ eyes are North Atlantic blue and broken shards of glaciers and Brock knows Rogers wants to mourn his failure to die in peace. It reminds Brock of the asset; both trapped in ice, unfrozen to carry out someone else’s plan for the world, never allowed to pass on. 

 

Brock sets his hand on Rogers’ shoulder before he leaves the apartment. 

 

\--

 

Rogers shows up to SHIELD the next day as if nothing happened. He is sent on a mission immediately. No one asks how he’s doing.

 

\--

 

After nineteen months, the order finally comes. It’s the best Christmas present Brock could have wished for.

 

The cryochamber opens, the asset slumps out entirely naked, and Oparkov catches him in a move that has been perfected by years of practice. Brock sees the muscles cord in Oparkov's body and no one goes over to help them. 

 

“<I've got you, Soldier. Welcome back.>”

 

The asset stays in Oparkov's arms for three minutes before his eyes catch Brock, who is standing quietly by the table. His muscles spasm and he manages to wriggle away from Oparkov, outmatching his aging physician even in this state. Everyone in the room is so shocked that the asset shook Oparkov off that no one moves for a whole second. The asset stumbles his way to Brock and Brock catches him before he falls. The asset wraps his arms around Brock’s neck and buries his face in his handler’s neck. The asset starts slurring and everyone in the room knows enough Russian to understand what he’s saying.

 

“<Missed you.>”

 

Brock shifts the asset to be able to hold him up with one arm and runs the other through the asset’s cryo fluid sodden hair. “<Hey, Soldier. Good to have you back.>”

 

The asset clings to him for four minutes beyond what is necessary for muscle control. When he moves to the exam table, he doesn’t let go of Brock’s shirt. 

 

Brock doesn’t make him.

 

\--

 

They step into the shower. Brock almost uses an entire bottle of shampoo trying to get all of the cryo fluid out of the asset’s hair, which falls down to just above the small of his back. 

 

He didn’t realise how much he missed the dark curls until he knots his fingers in them. Once the final round of shampoo swirls down the drain and the asset is squeaky clean all over, the asset burrows his nose into the base of Brock’s neck. He leaves his hands entangled in his asset’s hair and they stand there, silently entwined, until the water runs cold. 

 

\--

 

Two days later, they head out on the mission the asset was thawed for. He spends New Year’s with Rollins and the asset in Jordan. Rollins and Brock split a bottle of Jack and the asset gets the highest quality pomegranate, blackberry, and pear juice Brock could find.

  
The sit on the floor in an unfurnished apartment and talk until the wee hours of the morning. Rollins even gets the asset to laugh. He’s the first one beside Brock who’s been able to do that. The flight back is silent, but comfortable. The asset falls asleep on his thigh. Brock’s fingers are in his hair.


	9. 2014

**2014**

 

Another mission for Hydra. Six for SHIELD. He drags Rogers out to an art gallery. Two missions with the asset. 

 

He only goes home to grab more clothes and the bare minimum to avoid suspicion. Pierce doesn’t mind that he spends all his time with the asset as long as they both are obedient. 

 

He sleeps in the asset’s cell almost every night. The asset uses his shoulder, thigh, stomach, chest, or bicep as a pillow. Brock grins down at him sleepily.

 

\--

 

Rollins and the asset are on the shooting range; Brock is sitting in the corner doing paperwork on his tablet. Rollins and the asset are chattering; well, Rollins is chattering and the asset answers occasionally. Brock kind of tunes them out; he’s busy.

 

“--kay, Rumlow?”

 

He hums at Rollins, not paying attention. Rollins leaves him alone; Brock gets pulled back into his report. 

 

When he looks up from his finished paperwork, Rollins and the asset have disappeared. He’s a touched surprised, but not concerned; Rollins will take care of his Soldier. He closes the tablet he was filling out his reports on and goes searching.

 

He finds them in the gym. The asset and Rollins are sparring. Everyone else in the gym is watching because the asset has never sparred one-on-one with anyone except Brock. The Soldier is being cautious, but he revels. He never takes Rollins down, just allows them to fight each other in a playful manner.

 

An hour later, Rollins taps out and the asset stops his advances. “<If you two lovebirds are done, we’ve got actual work to do.>”

 

Rollins grins at him. “<Aw, you’re just jealous that he likes me too much to punch my lights out.>”

 

Brock snorts.

 

\--

 

The asset is sent out to terminate Fury. It is blatant and showy and goes against the asset’s MO. He wants to sneer. Fury is a slippery bastard; the asset does not return until the fatal shot has been dealt. 

 

“<Well done, Soldier.>”

 

He makes sure the asset is showered, fed, changed, and safely ensconced away before checking his secure Hydra phone for reports.

 

\--

 

Rumlow receives his mission. He is assigned to a team that is going to apprehend Rogers after a meeting with Pierce. No reasoning is given. No reasoning is ever given. You get your orders and you follow them, no questions. 

 

Brock can think of an excellent reason why Hydra might want a pet supersoldier.  _ If it comes down to Rogers or the asset, and he knows it will, it is not even a choice. The asset is his priority.  _

 

He doesn’t want to pay for the asset’s freedom with Rogers’ autonomy, but he will. If that’s what it takes.

 

Brock wants to vomit. Instead, he goes to the hospital to retrieve Rogers. 

 

\--

 

Brock enters the elevator. He spouts off some drivel or another. His stun baton is at half the power that is the recommended use for the asset. 

 

“Sorry about what happened to Fury; it was messed up what happened to him.”

 

“Thank you.” Rogers is on alert. Good. He wants Rogers away and not taken in and broken like his Soldier. He hopes Rogers doesn’t kill him; the asset’s relative freedom is so close he can taste it. 

 

The fight breaks out. Brock is the last one standing. Good. He knows how high the asset can drop before becoming injured. Rogers will make it out. Hopefully.

 

“Just want you to know, Cap, it’s nothing personal.”

 

He attacks, but he can see Rogers’ comprehension. He gets thrown into the ceiling grates. He blacks out.

 

\--

 

He sees Rogers and Romanoff on the escalator. They kiss and he lets his gaze slide over them. No one else picks them out. 

 

\--

 

Zola is gone and Rogers has disappeared. Now Rogers knows. About damn time. 

 

He comms in to Rollins. “Call in the asset.”

 

He hopes it’s enough.

 

\--

 

Rogers is on his knees and the asset has slipped from sight. He comes up behind Rogers to cuff him. “Not here,” he barks out. He doesn’t want Rogers brains on the pavement. He puts restraints on Rogers that will hold the asset as long as the asset is not attempting to escape.

 

He speaks subvocally without moving his mouth. Rogers will be able to hear it. “You make a move to shut Insight down and Barnes and I will help.” Rogers looks vacant. They hustle him into the van. Rollins comms in to him. “Rumlow, the asset is missing its handler.”

 

Fuck. “The Soldier with you?” Keep him at the safehouse until I get there to do damage control.

 

“Yeah.” I will. Brock breathes out.

 

“Be there in 7.”

 

\--

 

He takes off all communication devices before he enters the safehouse. Rollins nods and leaves, guarding the door. The asset is as vacant as Rogers. Brock has to actually touch him to get his attention. 

 

“Who was he?” The asset speaks in English -- low and soft and smooth. 

 

He speaks in subvocal without moving his mouth. “Steven Grant Rogers.”

 

“I knew him.” 

 

If there is surveillance here, they won’t be able to hear him or lip read. “Yes, you did. Soldier, look at me.” 

 

“He's the wrong size. Supp’s’d’ta be small.”

 

The asset turns to face him. “This is very important and I know you’re confused, but you need to listen to me.” 

 

The asset’s gaze does not slide away. “We have to go back to base. You must behave as if it is just another op. You didn’t recognise him. We’ll see Rogers again soon and we’re going to help him. If the mission is a success, you and me, we’re leaving Hydra for good. Okay?”

 

The asset leans forward and buries his face in Brock’s neck. Brock holds him for a minute, knowing their time is quickly running out. “<Time to go, Soldier.>”

 

When the asset pulls back, he is once again dangerous and sharp and deadly -- a thing of nightmares. Brock smiles. They leave the safehouse and return to base.

 

\--

 

The asset gives a detailed, monotone report while one of the med techs repairs the damage Rogers gave the arm. Pierce is there waiting for them, which would raise Brock’s red flags if he didn’t already know why he was there.  Pierce radiates smug satisfaction. He sends Brock a smile before he leaves.

 

\--

 

The van was empty. Rogers and his cohorts escaped. Brock does not smile. 

 

\--

 

Rogers, the Slavic Shadow, the Ghost, and Brock. If they can’t find a way to protect the asset from threats, no one will.

\--

 

Rogers’ voice is coming through every speaker in the building.

 

“<Soldier, intercept Rogers. Probable locations: Project Insight hangar, SHIELD Quinjet hangar, SHIELD security control room. Assist Rogers in his mission, if possible. If not, protect him from harm . If Rogers fails in his task and Hydra overpowers him, kill Rogers. If Rogers succeeds, remove all trackers from yourself and stay with him.>”   
  


He holds up the flat, weatherproof bottle full of the Soldier’s meds and the microdrive from Oparkov that contains the Soldier’s nutrition solution recipe and medication regimen specifics and a 48-month plan for getting the asset down to minimum meds and back onto solid meals. It also contains all the files about the Winter Soldier that Brock could get his hands on. He hands it to the Soldier who secures it to his person. “<Don’t lose that, Soldier.>”

 

“<You will find your Soldier after the mission?”

 

“<I will find my Soldier after the mission.>”

 

The asset nods and buries his face in Brock’s neck before stalking out of his cell. Hopefully for the last time.

\--

 

Brock lifts his handgun. “Put those carriers in the air, Agent.”

 

Either Hydra will get those carriers in the air and Brock and the asset will be left in peace or Rogers will make those carriers obliterate each other and the building below. He trusts SHIELD just as much as he trusts Hydra, which means not at all. He’s not leaving those carriers operational for SHIELD to fix and reinstate, to hunt down Brock and the asset, to take the asset away and recondition him or put a bullet in his head from 30,000 feet. Hydra or nothing.

 

“Is there a problem, Agent?”

 

“I’m not gonna do it. Captain’s orders.”

 

He doesn’t have time for this. The carriers will go up and, whether Rogers or Hydra comes out on top, he needs a visual on the asset now. He does what is necessary to get those carriers in the air.

 

He runs out of the room and sprints to the hangar. He gets a Quinjet in the air.

 

\--

 

Two figures fall from the burning wreckage. Brock hovers over the silty bank on the far side of the river and opens the rear door. The asset slogs out of the water with Rogers over one shoulder, unconscious. The asset lightly tosses Rogers into the back before cutting into himself, removing trackers and chemical-laden release timers. He unplates his arm and removes two more before bundling them all together in a torn off piece of fabric and hurling them into the Potomac. He jumps into the back and Brock closes the door and puts distance between them and the Triskelion.

 

\--

 

“<Soldier. Situational report. Physical status report of yourself and Rogers.>”

 

“<The asset covered Rogers while Rogers completed assigned subroutine. Carrier was damaged. A steel bracer made a solid connection with Rogers’ head before shattering the floor. Rogers fell, unconscious; the asset jumped after him. Asset; injuries acquired: none. Rogers; injuries acquired: unconscious, probable concussion, possible cracked ribs, bruising to temple and side of the head.>”

 

“<Well done, Soldier.>”

 

\--

 

He puts the Quinjet in stealth mode. There’s a Hydra safe house in Kansas with a full safe. He puts the jet down in the Middle of Nowhere, Missouri. SHIELD will be able to trace the jet eventually, but only when they realise it’s missing and not destroyed and only when they have repaired the equipment that was hopefully highly damaged.

 

He’s counting on Hydra being too crippled to realise he’s missing right away.

 

\--

 

He and the asset need to calm down and regain their equilibrium. They are almost free. So close. So close.

 

He finger combs the asset’s damp hair and puts it in a long tail down the asset’s back while they wait for Rogers to open his eyes.

 

\--

 

They stay in the jet until Rogers wakes up. He finds his legs hobbled and his arms tied behind him with steel cabling. He struggles until he sees the asset, then calms.

 

He sees Brock standing behind the asset and sneers. “Oh, you.”

 

“A thank you wouldn’t be too amiss, Rogers.”

 

“I’d shake your hand, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment.”

 

Brock restrains a sigh. “Look, I get you’re upset. Hell, I’m upset. But we are gonna put that aside for now so that SHIELD can’t apprehend us and Hydra can’t get their favorite asset back.”

 

Rogers’ eyes flit back to the asset and his Soldier stares calmly back. “Bucky?”

 

The asset keeps staring and says nothing.

 

“There’s a secret base Fury built. He’s there, not dead. Him and a few trusted agents. We could go there.”

 

Brock gapes at him. It’s been a long day and it finally catches up to him. “Are you insane! You want to take him to SHIELD, to fucking Fury? Want to sign his death sentence too? Lock him in another cell personally? We just got out! Eleven years, Rogers! Eleven years I’ve worked to get him out and you want to hand him right back over. Unbelievable. Fucking no.”   

 

Rogers is panther-loose. The asset speaks, “<He does not know better.>”

 

“<He should.>”

 

“<And yet he does not. You give the orders here. You tell us where to go. The asset will make him follow, if he will not on his own.>”

 

Brock takes in Rogers’ loose body and his set jaw. He’s probably almost out of those restraints. 

 

“<Very well. You tell him that, Soldier. He likes you better.>”

 

The asset pins his gaze on Rogers who holds as still as if the asset were holding one of his many knives to his neck.

 

“Commander Rumlow gives the orders. You will comply or the Soldier will apply force.”

 

Rogers wants to protest, but he bites his tongue and gives a single nod instead.

 

Brock chimes back in, “There’s a safe house about three hours from here. It’ll have cash and weapons. We need to find cover and a chemist.”

 

“A chemist? What, you gonna make a bomb?”

 

Brock shoots Rogers a cool look as the asset shifts, preparing for an altercation. “No. The Soldier has a highly specific diet and medication regimen. I don’t want him starving or in pain.”

 

Rogers teeth click. “Fine. Let me out. Let’s go.”

 

“<You are already out, sunshine.>”

 

Brock barks a laugh. “You aren’t fooling anyone here, Rogers. Get up.”

 

Brock grabs three pairs of sweatclothes from the overhead storage. They pull them on over their uniforms. Brock grabs the duffle full of weaponry and supplies he could scavenge from the jet. 

 

“Rogers, you and I are going to wait here. <Soldier, acquire a vehicle, then come pick us up.>”

 

The asset’s ice gray eyes glint. “<Rogers is unreliable. He may attempt to harm you.>”

 

“<Then tell him not to. He is not your handler; you do not need to take orders from him. You have my permission to speak freely with him.>”

 

Icy eyes turn to slush. “You will not harm Commander Rumlow, Rogers. A headshot will still kill you and the asset can hit a target from 2900 meters.”

 

The asset stalks off and he and Rogers wait in tense silence for about half an hour. 

 

“Eleven years?”

 

Brock doesn’t say anything for two minutes. “Yes.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

 

“You know the answer to that.”

 

They don’t speak any further, but the air is a little less tense. When the asset pulls up in a beat-up old Prius, Brock tells Rogers to get in the passenger seat and Brock gets in the back with the duffle. 

 

“<Wichita safe house, Soldier.>”

 

\--

 

Three hours and seventeen minutes later, puts them in a sleepy little suburb on the outskirts of Wichita. They are two blocks from the house. Brock leaves them to acquire a new car and raids the empty house of anything useful. He puts ten grande cash, twelve knives, four handguns, one sniper rifle, and two assault rifles, as well as five cases of appropriate ammo, into the duffle.

 

Then he breaks into a closed beautician parlor and grabs six different colors of professional grade hair dye, bleach, scissors, and a razor with an attachment. After a slight hesitation, he takes a comb and a brush too. He makes sure the room is orderly and closes the door behind him. 

 

He walks three blocks over to a thrift store and takes what clothing he guesses as their sizes before leaving as if he was never there. His duffle is bulging. An old model Honda pulls up beside him and he slips into the backseat. 

 

“<Montana, Soldier.>”

 

The drive is silent and Rogers eyes don’t leave the asset’s face.

 

\-- 

After eight hours of driving, the sun is coming up. The asset scopes out a house that’s owners are away on vacation. They abandon the car on the other side of the neighborhood and enter the house without anyone ever taking note of their presence. 

 

They enter the kitchen; they keep the lights off. Brock gets the asset a large glass of water. There is nothing in the fridge or pantry, but the freezer has a bag of chicken nuggets, three bags of frozen veggies, garlic bread, and two pizzas. They put the pizza and the nuggets in the oven. 

 

Rogers pulls the pizza and nuggets out of the oven.

 

Rogers pulls down three plates and begins dividing the nuggets. 

 

“He doesn’t need any.”

 

“What?”

 

“The Soldier doesn’t need any.”

 

Rogers clenches his jaw. “Not his name. He needs to eat.”

 

Brock rolls his eyes. The asset speaks, “<He doesn’t know any better.>”

 

“Rogers, look. Barnes cannot digest solid food. He cannot have any. We need to find a chemist.”

 

Rogers relents. They stand in the kitchen and consume all the food. The asset drinks three more glasses of water. 

 

“<Apply: personal disguises.> Rogers, how do you feel about being a Chocolate Desire brunet with a buzz cut?”

 

\--

 

Rogers is a buzz-cut brunet; he tells Rogers to stop shaving. Brock gets rid of his facial hair and bleaches himself to a dark, dirty blonde. He tells the asset that they are going to let his beard come back in and he lightens the dark brown a few shades; he does not touch the length of the asset’s hair and the asset’s eyes scream his thanks. 

 

“We aren’t going to cut Buck’s hair?”

 

“No. Take a shower, Rogers. Get the excess dye out. Leave us some shampoo.”

 

Rogers shower lasts three minutes. He leaves the bathroom, dirty clothes in hand, towel around his hips. Brock gestures to the duffle. “Find something that fits.”

 

Brock starts toward the bathroom and the asset follows. “Where are you going, Bucky?”

 

Brock stiffens. “He’s coming with me.”

 

There is something dark in Rogers’ tone. “Why is he doing that? You can stay out here with me. You don’t need to go with him, Buck.”

 

The asset doesn’t spare Rogers a second glance, just continues past Brock into the bathroom before Brock follows and shuts the door.

 

Brock and the asset strip down and look each other over, reassuring themselves that the other is not injured. They get in the shower and clean their bodies. The asset hands him the shampoo bottle and turns his back to Brock. The shampoo has an Orchid and Sweet Rain scent. 

 

Brock massages his Soldier’s head and the asset mewls. He rinses the shampoo out and the asset turns to bury his nose in Brock’s neck. Brock lets him rest there for a few moments before they need to get out and dry off.

 

\--

 

They exit the bathroom. The asset is nude and Brock has a towel tied around his hips. Rogers makes a cut off sound. Brock ignores him and pulls out an outfit in the asset’s size. 

 

“<Soldier, get dressed.>”

 

He pulls on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that fit moderately well. He holds his towel over his hands and dries the asset’s hair. Rogers doesn’t say anything, but he is watching closely. 

 

He grabs the comb and sits on the floor with his back to the couch. The asset settles between Brock’s legs and Rogers is panther-loose. Brock combs out the asset’s curls; he puts the lighter hair in a neat, tight French braid. 

 

They throw all the dirty clothes in wash machine.

 

“We’re sleeping here today. I need four hours.” 

 

Rogers nods and lays out on one of the couches. Brock slumps into the most defensible corner of the room. The asset crowds up against him; Brock knows his Soldier will not sleep, will keep watch, doesn’t trust Rogers around his sleeping handler. Brock falls asleep quickly, head on his asset’s shoulder. 

 

Rogers watches discreetly from the couch.

 

\--

Brock snaps awake. The asset is pointing one of the handguns from the duffle -- he wonders how many other weapons the asset has on his person at the moment -- at Rogers, who towers above them at Brock’s feet. Rogers hands are up and he isn’t moving. 

 

“<Soldier. Situation report.>”

 

“<Rogers approached while you were unconscious.>”

 

Brock recalls the way no agent would come close to them while Brock was KO’ed on the floor of the gym.

 

“Rogers, future reference. Don’t approach while I’m out.”

 

“Yeah, got that.”

 

“<Stand down, Soldier.> He won’t do it again. Right, Rogers?”

 

“That’s right.” Brock gives him a look. “He’s right; I won’t come too close when he’s asleep anymore.”

 

The asset puts the safety back on and lowers the gun, concealing it on himself once more.

 

\--

 

Brock empties the duffle. Rogers brings the clothes from the laundry room, clean and dry. “I’m going to the health store. Wait here. Eat something.”

 

He leaves before Rogers can offer protest. He steals from the storeroom. The employees never knew he was there.

 

\--

 

He returns with thirty pounds of Vivonex powder. It’ll last eight days. He dissolves 1.6 kilos in a liter of water in a gallon container he pulled from someone’s recycle bin on the way back to the house. It is more of a sludge. He glances at the asset. The asset stares back. 

 

He fills up the container the rest of the way. It looks a little better. “<Soldier, we’re leaving. Take your meds now. Once we’re in the car, ingest all of this at a rate that is physically comfortable.>”

 

\--

 

The asset procures another car. Rogers drives. The ride is silent; Brock will make an occasional remark to the asset in Russian, but otherwise there is not any sound. The radio is on political talk show stations. 

 

Romanoff put all electronic SHIELD and Hydra files on the web. It’s a mess. Brock would thank God for small mercies if he thought God wasn’t laughing his ass off at them all. He sends mental thanks to Romanoff instead. 

 

The asset smiles widely from the back seat. Brock grins at him. “<What’s got you so pleased?>”

 

“<Natalia. The asset’s girl.  _ You’ll do great things one day, Natalia. _ She did.>”

The asset sips at the nasty looking water.

 

“<Oh, she did more than that.> Rogers, tell the Soldier what his Spiderling did during Manhattan.”

 

Rogers makes the correct connections in his head. “Make you a deal, Buck. I’ll tell you one story about Natasha for every one that you tell me about you.”

 

His Soldier looks to him for permission. “<If you think it’s a fair trade, go ahead. You may speak freely with him.>”

 

The Soldier’s eyes flash with the opportunity to gather knowledge about his girl. “Deal: accepted.”

 

It isn’t silent any more.

 

\--

 

The asset won’t tell any stories relating to missions. Refuses to give any hints about what was done to him to make the Soldier. Is silent about the arm and it’s workings. Won’t tell Rogers anything about how Brock interacts with the Soldier. Won’t give away any weaknesses.

 

He doesn’t trust Rogers at all.

 

He relays only unimportant information. Unimportant information to the asset is the Soldier’s treatment by his prior handlers in between missions. He trades what he thinks is fair for fair, caliber of story for caliber of story, worried that if the exchange isn’t equal Rogers will stop talking about the spiderling.

 

\--

 

They drive until the tank is empty, then they switch cars. Rogers goes to the bathroom. Brock knows he went to vomit from the stories he heard. He didn’t let on that anything was out of the ordinary, so Brock doesn’t comment on it. He and the asset exchange a look. 

 

\--

“Why are you not small?” English, but the Russian accent is prominent. He isn’t comfortable around Rogers. “You are small.”

 

Rogers answers honestly, though he's hesitant. “Well, there was this man, Erskine, and he had an experiment.”

 

Fuck, shut up, Rogers. But Rogers doesn’t really know better. The asset hasn’t told him about experimentation, only torture. 

 

“Did they make you?”

 

Rogers grimaces. “No.”

 

The asset looks to Brock to clarify. Rogers takes a deep breath. “I volunteered.”

 

The Soldier makes a terrible noise, puts his hands over his ears, and does not speak again, will not be consoled. Rogers is confused -- like he was expecting to be chewed out by an irate friend, and maybe he was --, but that doesn’t keep Brock from glaring at him. He puts it together and goes white.

 

“I didn’t know.” He’s deforming the steering wheel.

 

Brock snaps out. “Doesn’t change it now, does it?”

 

They drive until the gas is gone, then find a new ride. Then do it again. And again. Brock is concerned. Rogers waffles between anguish and rage. It is silent. 

 

\--

 

At eight in the evening, they pass an old rusted truck for sale on the side of the road. Brock gets dropped at a gas station. He buys two gallons of water, three loaves of bread, and six jars of peanut butter. Rogers picks him up in the rusty truck. They meet the asset on the road leading out of town. The stolen car has been abandoned.

 

The three of them cram into the front. Brock is the smallest, so he takes the center. That and the Soldier’s shoulders reveal he doesn’t want to touch Rogers, doesn't want to interact with him at all. So Brock takes one for the team and squishes into the middle. The asset holds the duffle in the passenger seat; Rogers drives. 

\--

 

They are in the middle of Montana. There’s no one anywhere nearby. They keep their eyes peeled for unused old cabins or houses.

 

They find one eventually. Probably a hunting cabin. It is twenty miles from the nearest town. The asset picks the lock. Rogers carries in the duffle. The electricity does not work. Brock tests to see if the water will run. It does. 

 

There is a kerosene lamp in the closet and wood by the fireplace, as well as stacked outside. They don’t light either. There’s a bathroom with a door in the back, left corner. There is a double bed is in back, right corner of the main room. Kitchen stove, fridge, and table in another, front left.  Shelves line the wall; some have doors, most don’t. There is a couch along the wall opposite the bed, front right corner. There’s a rug on the floor and four windows, two on the front wall, one above the bed, one opposite it. 

 

Brock looks at the bed for a moment before heading to the corner made by the fridge and the front wall.

 

“You can take the bed, Rumlow. I’m fine with the couch.”

 

He must really look terrible for Rogers to offer that up with how angry he still is at Brock. He looks at the bed, then back at the hard, cold corner, then back at the bed. Honestly, he’s used to sleeping on the concrete of the asset’s cell; this corner is most likely more comfortable. However, they don’t belong to Hydra anymore and he and the asset can sleep on a bed every night now, if that’s what they want to do. 

 

“<Soldier. Your prerogative: bed or floor. Your prerogative: my immediate presence or my presence at the other side of the room.>”

 

“<Bed. Your presence.>”

 

They walk over. Brock takes a piss. The asset goes into the bathroom after he comes out. He doesn’t shut the door. Brock lays down on the bed on the side against the wall. The asset strides out of the restroom and settles himself with his back against Brock’s side, facing Rogers. Brock puts his arm out and the asset settles his head on his handler’s bicep. 

 

Rogers watches them, not saying anything; his eyes sheen with tears and Brock looks away, uncomfortable. Rogers has handled this all remarkably well, all things considered, so Brock leaves him to mourn Barnes in peace. Brock is fairly certain Rogers is in love with Barnes, whether he can learn to love who Barnes has become -- whether he can adapt to the Soldier -- is yet to be seen. If Rogers ever becomes toxic to his Soldier’s health -- any type of health -- Brock is taking the asset and leaving. The Soldier is under Brock’s care, leaving Hydra doesn’t change that. He will not force his Soldier into any mold, will not try to shape him into something “normal” or “human,” even if that human is his old identity; he won’t let anyone else do it either. Brock drifts off to sleep with the solid weight of the asset at his side. 

 

\--

 

When Brock wakes up, it’s late morning and the asset has fallen asleep. He smiles before he sees Rogers still staring at them. His eyes are so broken and sharp that Brock feels sliced open under them. 

 

“He’s never going to be the Barnes you knew again. You know that, right?” His voice is a soft subvocal and the asset doesn’t wake or, at least, does an excellent impression of slumber. 

 

Rogers sighs. He shifts so he’s flat against the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Yeah, I know.”

 

The asset is definitely awake now. 

 

“He needs to figure it out for himself.” He pauses. “He’ll want to see Romanoff.”

 

Rogers snorts. “I’ll give her a call when she’s done on the Hill.”

 

They are silent. The asset continues to play sleep.

 

“Rumlow? I-- Thanks. For doing what you could. I forget sometimes, what it’s like to be replaceable, dispensable.”

 

Brock chuff a laugh. Rogers went from dead body walking to miracle of science; he doubts Rogers ever knew what it meant to be replaceable, dispensable.

 

Rogers continues, “That doesn’t mean I forgive you.”

 

“Buddy, I can’t even absolve myself. I don’t expect my redemption from you.”

 

They don’t speak anymore. 

 

When the asset pretends to wake up. Brock mixes him some more Vivonex. The asset sips at it throughout the morning. Brock and Rogers eat peanut butter sandwiches.

 

\-- 

 

Rogers takes their little chat to heart. “What should I call you?” He’s looking at the asset.

 

“Asset.”

 

Rogers is panther-loose, but thinks for a moment. “Most operatives like us have two designations. A human designation and an alter designation for missions. My human designation is Steve Rogers. My alter is Captain America. You have an alter for missions: Winter Soldier or Asset. But if we’re going to be under cover, you’ll need a human designation or we’ll draw undue attention to ourselves.”

 

Well, color Brock impressed. Look at Rogers putting it on the level for his Soldier. The asset glances at him and Brock nods. “<He’s right.>”

 

The asset prepares to speak, but Rogers gets to it first. “You don’t have to answer now. Think about it. Human designations are important. Make sure it's one you like.”

 

Brock thinks back to a room full of little girl.  _ Yasha _ . Russian. Defender of men. Defender of little girls. To traumatised child-soldiers, he must have been a god in the field and a comfort in the dormitory. But there are other meanings.

 

Iranian. To live forever.

 

Japanese. Demon.

  
The asset knows all of those languages. He wonders which name the asset will choose.


	10. 2014

“There’s a chemist in Boise that owes me a favor. The question is where are we going after.”

 

Rogers offers a suggestion, not a command. “We could go to one of Stark’s houses. I’ll just let him know I need a place to lay low and that’s that.” 

 

Brock considers him. Rogers will do what it takes to keep the Soldier safe, he knows that, but Rogers .  . . well. He isn’t naive and he isn’t trusting, but he really doesn’t know just what people will do to get their hands on the Winter Soldier, a programmable weapon in a body with a ridiculously perfect kill count. 

 

“I’m going to go to Boise today. I’m leaving the Soldier with you. <Soldier, don’t let him call Stark. Non-violent, verbal restraint, followed by non-violent physical restraint, followed by violent, non-lethal restraint.>

“When I get back, there’s something I want to show you, Rogers. Don’t go anywhere.”   
  


\--

 

The trip was uneventful. There’s a laptop in the passenger seat and a micro drive adapter in Brock’s pocket. Kongigston worked overnight to make him 95 liters of nutrition solution. It’s covered by a tarp in the bed of the truck, contained in five five-gallon buckets.

 

_ Kongigston raises an eyebrow at the recipe, but doesn’t say anything other than, whoever came up with this is a genius. _

 

 _Brock asks him how much a batch that size would cost at a regular chemists._ _They’d charge an arm and a leg, but if they’d be willing to do it without a profit -- which they very well might be willing to do to be able to work with this piece of art formula -- the solution itself would be about three grande per hundred liters._

 

_ Brock hisses out a breath. A thousand a month to keep the Soldier fed. Kongigston speaks again. I don’t know how much it would be on the black market. Maybe less.  _ _ Kongigston tells him it’s advanced, that he shouldn’t make it without a practiced chemist. Brock hands over the med formula.  _

 

_ This time Kongigston does speak. Please tell me this is a drug you’re wanting for the hell of it and not for an actual person. He looks at the nutrition formula on the counter and the med formula in his hand. He pales. This is for the same person. Brock doesn’t deny it. His hands are steady, but his voice shakes. A human body can only withstand so much trauma before it gives out. This person should be dead.  _

 

_ Brock doesn’t say anything. Kongigston takes a deep breath. Don’t worry; there won’t be any mistakes. In the middle, he says, you want me to makes these smaller so you don’t have to keep breaking them apart.  _

 

_ They take them whole. Kongigston looks up sharply. How often? Once every twenty-four hours. Kongigston hisses.  _

 

_ The barrels are loaded in the bed. Kongigston hands over a bottle of two hundred pills. These will be exorbitant. You should come back here when you need more of those. An employed chemist will have a legal responsibility to report that and you. Private chemists too, for that matter. You don’t want that formula in the underworld. Brock shakes his hand. Brock reaches in the cab to grab five of the ten thousand. Keep it; whoever those pills are for will need it more than me. Brock’s shoulders slump and he breathes out his thanks.  _

 

_ He gets in the truck and drives away. The sun is rising.   _

\--

 

Romanoff will be put in front of a Senatorial subcommittee in two days, a man on the radio says. Another questions Captain America’s whereabouts, if he is even alive. Another states that Captain America’s body has not been found in the Potomac, though crews are still hauling the wreckage out. 

 

Sting after sting after sting is performed and Hydra agents are apprehended, Hydra bases are found and cleaned out. Government agencies are called into question. There are riots all over the country.

 

\--

 

Rogers and the asset come out to help carry the containers inside.

 

\--

 

Brock sleeps for five hours while the asset keeps watch above him. The Soldier doesn’t talk to Rogers, but doesn’t tell Rogers to shut up. Brock takes pity on him and suggests Rogers tells the Soldier fairytales while Brock is catching some Zs. Rogers lights up; that must be something that Barnes enjoyed too.

 

The world fades out to the sound of Rogers and the Aristocats.

 

\--

 

Brock sets up the laptop and puts in the microdrive; he opens the files.

 

“Rogers, the Soldier and I are going to town to get some supplies. Read all of this. We’ll be gone eight hours.”

 

Rogers almost questions him before he realises what Brock is actually saying. He makes no changes to his body or expression. Rogers may be a bad liar with his mouth, but his body is an expert.

 

“Okay. I’m starving. Can you get a big bag of sugar and a couple dozen eggs? Maybe a few bricks of cheese?”

 

Right. Because the refrigerator won’t turn on and meat would go bad. Damn it. He thanks, well not Romanoff but not God either. He’s  _ thankful _ \-- better, he’s learning -- for wood stoves.

 

“Yeah, no problem.”

 

\--

 

Hours later, while Rogers is reading the files and they are steering clear of the cabin for a touch longer, the asset questions. “<Will you address your asset by the human designation?>”

 

“<I will if you think that’s the best course of action.>”

 

The asset doesn’t answer.

 

\--

 

They return at two in the morning. Rogers does not come out to greet them. There's only one bag to carry in. Rogers is on the couch, facing the back. He doesn’t move to acknowledge them, pretending to be asleep. The computer is shut down, sitting innocuously on the table. Brock takes the drive out and hands it to the asset, who secures it. Rogers isn’t fooling either of them, but they let him alone.

 

\--

 

The next morning, Rogers proves just how accomplished a liar he is. He’s an artist, as long he does not have to lie straight out. 

 

Brock thinks of Rogers’ unhappy face and shrinking aura over the last two years and knows Rogers has been screaming for help.

 

No one heard.

 

Or, if they did since he worked with some of the best people readers in the world, no one cared.

 

Brock and Rogers work their way through three dozen eggs and an entire block of cheese.

 

\--

He goes out to the truck to check the radio at 1000. There was a force launched against the Vault at 0400. The devices found there have all the show hosts and all the media in an uproar. The chair. The tank. The medical table. The storage room. The filing room.

 

The government is being transparent, has to to keep a full scale uprising from occurring.

 

He wonders what is going to happen to the Soldier’s files. They’ll probably be released. Even if they aren’t, the government will have them. 1627 pages of how the asset works. Three dozen accompanying files of mostly dead men. 2500 pages on the cryotank and the chair and the proper mechanics and procedure. One short, fify-page Asset Handbook that gives the bare bones. There’s a kill list with names. 57 targets, 214 casualties. There are a lot of big names on that list. 

 

They aren’t safe here anymore. Howard and Maria Stark are on that list. Tony Stark was a civilian prisoner of war for three months. Tony Stark resents the government taking his stuff and trying to control him. Tony Stark is a mechanical genius, will know what those machines did. They aren’t safe here. He will not let his Soldier go from one agency to another; that was the point of getting rid of SHIELD. Will not let his Soldier end up in another lab, on another table, in another cell, in another tube, prodded and examined and pulled apart.  Fury is probably searching for them. Everyone is searching for Captain America. They aren’t safe here. Stark has some of the best security in the world. The best lawyers. The best labs. They aren’t safe here.

 

Brock walks steadily back into the cabin, but his voice is hoarse. “Call Stark.”

 

Both super soldiers stare at him waiting for him to continue. “They raided the Vault early this morning.”

 

The asset is a statue and Rogers is lost. “What’s the Vault?”

 

“Base with a bank front. The Vault held the cryotank and the chair and the asset.” Rogers starts relaxing his muscles like a big cat. “There was a secured file vault there. It held the WInter Soldier’s full files. That’s where I got all those pictures. Only base I went to that had them. The team got the door open.” Brock controls his breathing; he’s a professional, damn it! He’s not going to hyperventilate. Rogers starts moving. He’s seen the files. 

 

“We’re leaving. Now,” Rogers snaps out. The asset moves immediately and, if Brock wasn’t fighting off a panic attack, he’d be more intrigued that the asset is surprised by his response, as if Rogers is his handler. However, he is fighting off a panic attack, so it doesn’t make the impact he knows it should. He thinks offhandedly that Rogers was the dominating force in that relationship. 

 

Somehow they get everything in the car and Brock is in the middle. Everything is catching up to them. He thought they’d have more time. They aren’t safe here. 

 

When they make it to the southern border of the state, Rogers buys a trac phone at the gas station. He doesn’t make the call until they’ve driven for another hour. He pulls onto the shoulder of an empty road. Brock can hear rock and roll through the phone’s speakers. Rogers rolls his eyes.

 

The phone picks up. There is no voice.

 

“Stark?”

 

“Cap! Where the hell have you been?”

 

“Not now, Tony. You got a place I can lay low for a while?”

 

Stark may lack people skills, but he is a genius. There was a raid on the Vault this morning.

 

“Remember that day with the termites?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Only five-star in town.”

 

The line goes dead.

 

Go figure, Tony Stark has secret codes. Brock could have guessed that. If anyone manages to get a hold of that phone call, they won’t have any idea where they’re going; there will be no interception, no ambush. Stark probably traced that call, if anyone was listening, they did too. Stark didn’t leave them sitting ducks.

 

Rogers tosses the phone out the window; he begins driving. “There’s a restaurant in Napa Valley we need to get to.”

 

Brock raises his eyebrows; the asset scans the road in all directions. Rogers snipes,“Yes, I know Michelin Stars only go up to three.”

 

Brock nods and they drive.

 

\--

 

Ten hours and two car changes later, they pull into a parking spot at the outeredge of the WalMart parking lot nearest La Toque, the Michelin three-star Rogers got from Stark. 

There’s a winery delivery van in the spot next to them. Rogers gets out to open the back and, lo and behold, it opens. They transfer the five gallon buckets, the duffle, a bag of food, and the laptop to the van in one trip a piece. Rogers and the asset climb in the back and shut the doors. Brock gets in the front seat.

 

“It’ll be automated. Just pretend to drive.” The car starts by itself and pulls out of the lot. 

Stark’s smug voice is suddenly coming out of the radio. “I knew it! I knew you had guests!”

 

The asset tenses. Steve relaxes, actually relaxes, not loosens. “Hey, Stark.” Rogers looks at the clock. “Isn’t it after three in the morning in New York?”

 

“Yeah so.”

 

“You should be sleeping.” Rogers is cajoling and smirking.

 

“Bah! Sleep is for the weak. Too much to do.”

 

“Gonna tell us where we’re going, Stark?”

 

Stark hums dramatically. “Don’t know. You going to tell me who your buddies are?” There’s a pause that lasts less than a beat. “No need; I already know. Winter Soldier, no known name, operative of Hydra. Brock Rumlow, agent of SHIELD, operative of Hydra. And may I just say, sir, fifteen years of outstanding infiltration and undercover work is impressive. You lose points for being part of an international terror organisation. Winter Soldier, your files are seriously lacking. You got a name to share with the class?”

 

The asset’s files aren’t open to the public. That probably wouldn’t stop Stark. They haven’t finished going through the room yet or they haven’t put it in digital format.

 

“Mikhail Volkov.” Rogers beams.  _ He who is like God. Bear. He who knows where the honey is.  _ He watches Rogers in the rearview. Or perhaps _ he who replaces God. _

 

“Okay, mouthful. Got something shorter?”

 

“Soldier. Asset. Dog.”

 

Stark hesitates, as if waiting for the joke to be revealed. “I don’t think I’m going to be calling you any of those.”

 

The asset is at a loss. He looks at Rogers, who grins brokenly back. He’s talking at Stark, but he’s speaking to Rogers. “Misha. Use Misha.”

 

“Right. Misha it is then. Good to meet you.”

 

Rogers moves his right hand two inches before setting it back on his thigh. “Thank you, Misha.”

 

Rogers clears his throat. “Where’re we going, Tony?”

 

“I’ve got a chateau in wine country in Oregon. Jarvis has been linked up and the security amped. It isn’t listed as belonging to me, even though I own it and the vineyards bring in a pretty penny.”

 

“Anybody living there?”

 

“I’ve got employees, if that’s what you mean. Most of them have their own homes. I’ve got one family of four that lives in the staff quarters further away. They know someone is moving in and they are under the Stark confidentiality contract, just like all my other employees. They filled the fridge and changed the sheets, all that jazz.”

 

Rogers lets out a breath and rests his head against the side of the van.

 

Stark speaks with a bit more caution. “Hey, Mish, where’s the rest of your file?”

 

His Soldier catches his gaze in the rearview. “Stark, Rumlow here. Look, we haven’t really had any internet, only radio. What’s going on over there in regards to high ranking Hydra officers?”

 

“They’re being rounded up and put in custody until their individual trials. Honestly, I’m kind of confused as to why we’re hiding you instead of turning you in. But what Cap says goes, so here you are.”

 

Yeah, here they are. Now that he’s talked to Stark -- interacted with him -- instead of just having read a file on him, he’s feeling more secure about this.

 

“If I wanted to send you some secure files, could we do that?”

 

“Yup, no problem. Jarvis will take care of it. Get synced to the house and bada-bing-bada-boom we are in business. There should be an extra tablet or something at the house, if you need one.”

 

Yeah, and Stark’ll be able to see everything that happened on it. No, thank you. “Okay, I’m going to send you some stuff.”

 

“How much stuff we talking here? I’m going to make space for it.”

 

“About one hundred photos.”

 

Stark huffs. “I was getting excited and you crushed my hopes. Rude.”

 

Don’t get too depressed. Rogers, being the helpful and observant person that he is, changes the subject.

 

“Tony, I’m starving. What’s in the house?”

 

\--

 

Sitting in the van outside the moderately-sized chateau, Brock loads the microdrive back into the laptop, while the asset and Rogers carry all their equipment inside. He chooses one hundred and three documents that give the basic gist of the Soldier’s time in the hands of the Red Room and Hydra. The full kill list is not part of it. He pulls the drive out before walking into the house. 

 

“Hello. I am Jarvis, Mr. Stark’s Artificial Intelligence. I have been instructed to assist you. May I direct you anywhere in particular?”

 

“Wherever the food is. And can I connect to your network? I need to send Stark some documents.”   
  
“Your laptop is now connected to Mr. Stark’s private server. If you could please select the documents, I will ensure Mr. Stark gets them.”

 

“Great. Thanks.” He opens the folder he transferred the documents to. “It’s this file. Uh, I assume that you’re already in this computer?”

 

“I am, Agent Rumlow. Would you like me to send it now?”

 

“Yes.”   
  
“The file has been sent. The kitchen is down the hall and to the left. There are three empty bedrooms and a restroom upstairs, as well as a restroom off of the living room. If you need more assistance at anytime, simply call out for me and I will assist.”

 

This AI is so much more polite and helpful than the ones he deals with at work. He feels like he should be polite back. “Uh, thanks, Jarvis.”   
  
“My pleasure, Agent Rumlow.”

 

Brock makes his way into the kitchen where Rogers has made food for them both. Brock gets the asset 400 milliliters of nutrition solution, glad to be done with the Vivonex. That stuff was nasty. 

 

\--

 

Rogers goes into one bedroom. He’s almost to the bed before he turns back with a wide grin, as if he’s expecting to find the asset right behind him, ready to crawl into bed. His smile doesn’t change when he sees the Soldier standing at Brock’s shoulder. Not a single facial tic. An actor or a liar and, really, what’s the difference?

 

“See you in the morning. Goodnight, Misha.” The tone is warm. “Rumlow.” Not as warm.

 

Brock nods. “Rogers. Sleep in, if you can.”

 

The asset doesn’t say anything or acknowledge Rogers at all, but his gray eyes are dove soft. They go into the room at the end of the hall. There’s a bathroom next door.

Shit, Brock wants a shower. He goes into the bathroom and begins stripping; the asset follows.

 

He finds shampoo under the sink. And conditioner! He hold it up in victory. The asset lets the corners of his mouth turn up.

 

\--

 

The asset’s hair is loose and damp over Brock’s arm. He doesn’t bother speaking at a subvocal. Rogers can hear, if he decides to listen, but he can’t understand. “<Your prerogative: Soldier, Volkov, Mikhail, or Misha.>”

 

The asset pauses for a moment. “<Mission designation: Soldier. Human designation: Misha.>”

 

“<A solid plan, Misha. We will implement it.>”

 

Emotional exhaustion forces him to slumber not long after.

 

\--

 

Brock doesn’t wake up until mid-afternoon. The asset is fiddling with a knife, leaning against the headboard. Brock yawns. Rogers is clanging down in the kitchen. He puts Misha’s hair in a five strand braid. “<Let’s go eat, S-Misha.>”

 

Once they’re all at the table with their respective sustenance, Jarvis makes his -- its -- his presence known. “Agent Rumlow, Sir requested of me to notify him when you were awake enough to talk. Is this a good time?”

 

Good as any. “Sure.”

 

Not two seconds later, Tony Stark is hovering at the foot of the table above the window seat none of them was willing to take. “Morning, gentlemen. Who am I kidding? Morning, men. Now I went through the file and can see it is just a cherry-picking. Is there more data somewhere or is this all that survived?”

 

“They raided the Vault yesterday.” As if that answers everything, but it does.

 

“Ah, I see. Do you have the rest of the file?”   
  
“If you really wanted it, you could hack whichever agency gets it digitized first. Is it worth that to you?”

 

“Yes, if it comes down to it. If the evidence accidentally “disappears,” it will be very easy for Mish to be hunted down, put on trial, condemned, and put in a high security “prison” that is conveniently located next door to a lab. We’re going to prevent that before they even get that ball rolling. Prisoner of war, torture victim, unwilling participant of human experimentation, coercion, insanity, mental illness, actions under duress, Stockholm Syndrome. The weight of the Avengers and Stark Industries will be behind it. American war hero. Longest POW. Hell, Operation Paperclip, Operation Rebirth, and Operation Revenant were government sanctioned. We’re going to make to US government acquit him of any crimes committed and force them offer a formal apology while they’re at it.”

 

Brock blinks. He gave that man those files eight hours ago. “Do you ever sleep?”

 

“Not if I can help it. So do you have any more documents?”

 

He looks at his S-Misha, who gazes steadily back, fully confident in his handler’s decision. “Yeah. About 4,000 more.” 

 

Stark makes a little fist pump. “Suck my dick, Capitol Hill! You know what, we might actually press charges against the government for damages sustained. Alexander Pierce and the few times he used Mish on the US’s behalf, that’s our ace. Fuck that, I’m suing Russia too. Let’s get those files!”

 

“American war hero?”   
  
Stark’s grin is sharp. “You think I don’t know who he is? My father was Howard Stark.”    
  
The asset--Misha doesn’t flinch, stares straight at Stark. “Don’t worry about it, Mish. Wasn’t in your control. But I do expect to win both these lawsuits as consolation, so send me those files!”

 

Genius. Right, Stark is a genius. Got it. Stark pipes up, “We can keep James Barnes out of it, if you want, Mish. Unless there’s a James Barnes in paperwork I haven’t seen yet.”

 

“There isn’t any name of the Winter Soldier anywhere. And no pictures before they picked him up either.”

 

“Great. Then we can play the “you don’t know your name, so you picked one” card and drop the American hero. You’ll still get off. If you want. Or we can go in as James Barnes and crush them, but you’ll never get rid of the press. Ever. Well, you might not either way. Your choice, Mish.”

 

RIpped velvet rumbles out, “Misha will need to consider all options.”

 

“Well, you’ll have at least a day to decide before I get my lawyers on this to rip them apart. Speaking of, why do I not have the rest of the fucking files yet?”

 

Brock grabs the laptop off the couch and holds out his hand to Misha, who gives him both drives. Smart man. 

 

“Stark, Misha has something he thinks you’ll be glad to see. These are the only copies and I’m sure Oparkov burned the originals by now. I’ve been reliably informed that these should not get on the black market.”

 

He slips that one in first. Jarvis must have already retrieved it because Stark turns his eyes slightly to the left and his jaw drops. His voice is flat, which is very disconcerting. “Mish, are you on this right now?” 

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“How much? How often?”

 

“Two thousand milligrams once every twenty-four hours.”

 

“Fucking Christ.” He does something with his hand. “This food alternative: how much of that do you need?”

 

“The asset’s metabolism requires a minimum of 600 milliliters every twenty-four hours, up to a 1000 after exertion. The asset may miss days if on a mission, but the amount should be made up either before or after or split between the two.”

 

Stark’s jaw clenches. “Okay. Send me the rest.”

 

Brock changes the drive. Jarvis does his thing. “Right. I’m going to go through these. I’ll call you back when I’m done.” He looks at the asset. “Talk to you later, Mish.”

 

Misha’s eyes flame. He trusts a man on a video screen that he’s never met and whose parents he killed over Steve Rogers.

 

Rogers picks up on it too. His expression doesn’t change.

 

\--

 

“Jarvis?”

 

“Yes, Agent Rumlow.”

 

“Can you order a couple advanced Rubik’s cubes?”

 

“Of course. If you’d prefer, I can project a manipulatable hologram until the requested items arrive.”

 

Brock considers. “I’d appreciate that.”

 

The cube hangs in front of him. He plucks it out of the air. Misha is in the most defensible corner of the main room. Brock holds the cube out to him. “<It’s a hologram, but you can move it.>”

 

Misha takes it from him. He twists a side and a few columns. Tension slips from his neck as he begins to solve the cube. Brock slumps down in the armchair and goes to his resting-but-still-alert headspace. His asset moves so that he’s at Brock’s feet.

 

Rogers slips in and observes silently from the couch.

 

Misha’s hands move for hours. Brock smiles a little bit. 

 

\--

 

They turn on the large television and get caught up on the media portrayal of this clusterfuck. A few of the documents from the Vault have been released to the public. Around midnight, Brock decides to go to bed. Misha follows. Rogers remains on the couch, lost in his head, but pulls himself out long enough to murmur, “Goodnight, Misha.”

 

\--

 

After a long shower and an intricate -- and very beautiful, if he does say so himself -- 

braid, they join Rogers for in the kitchen. “Step away from the stove!”

 

Rogers’ chin snaps his direction. He releases an aggravated, “what?”

 

“You are not ruining anymore meals. Back away!” He can see Rogers setting his jaw in refusal. “Keep Misha company while I make something that’s actually edible.”

 

Switch thrown, Rogers removes himself from the spot for the chef. Brock gives a sigh of relief. He pours a full portion of solution for the asset and sets it on the table in front of the seat his asset sat in yesterday.

 

They both take their seats while Brock makes . . . fuck yes, all the ingredients for pancakes! And cheesy eggs. And sausage. There’s orange juice in the fridge. Organic. He pours three glasses. Rogers makes himself useful and helps carry the veritable feast to the table.

 

Now that Brock’s had some time to process what’s happened, his appetite has reared its head with a vengeance. Rogers’ too. He makes another batch of pancakes and eggs once they decimate the first round. “<Misha. Your prerogative: more nutrition solution or negative. Your prerogative: volume.>”

 

“<Affirmative. 250 milliliters.>”

 

He refills Misha’s glass with the requested amount. “Oh, damn!” He rushes back to the stove and flips the cakes. Two of them are darker than the golden perfection he prefers. “These are going to be yours, Rogers.”

 

Rogers chuckles. “What were you saying about my cooking earlier, Rumlow? Best only serve gourmet after that.”

 

“Oh, shut up, you prissy enhanced.”

 

\--

 

Jarvis queues up the Aristocats on the screen at Brock’s request. “Rogers, get your ass in here! We’re going to see just how accurate of a storyteller you are!” 

 

The door to the upstairs bathroom opens and Roger’s comes out in a towel. “What do you-- Aw, come on,” he’s watching the kitties on the screen. “I only saw it once.”

 

“Don’t think I don’t know about the enhancements to the mind, Rogers.”

 

Rogers is grumbling, but he’s moving too eagerly to be anything but pleased as punch. He’s dressed and on the couch not 40 seconds later, damp hair spiking in all directions. 

He speaks in English to taunt Rogers further. “Misha, this is the tale Rogers told us three nights ago. Tell me how closely he followed the plot at the end.”

 

Rogers pouts, but his eyes shine as Misha claims his spot at Brock’s feet. He settles himself on the side that’s closer to Rogers. 

 

Rogers ups the dramaticism with his pleasure at the asset’s nearness. He holds his hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

 

The asset responds, “You know you told it perfectly, solnishka.”

 

Rogers beams. “Yes, I did. But thank you for your confidence, Misha.”

 

“It is not confidence.”

 

Brock tells Jarvis to start the animation. 

 

\--

 

“It was a perfect retelling.”

 

“Thank you, Misha. And you doubted me, Rumlow.”   
  


Brock doesn’t tell him that he did not doubt him. 

 

Stark pops up on the screen. He’s jittery and over-energized and Brock doubts he’s slept. 

 

“If you’re done. Jarvis wouldn’t let me interrupt your kiddie movie.” Stark is pouting.

 

“It was the Aristocats, Tony.”

 

Stark throws his hands in the air. “You watched it without me! What is wrong with you? What happened to loyalty, Rogers?”

 

Rogers gives him a complicated look. Stark glares good-naturedly back. “Don’t think we’re even now. It was only half an hour!”

 

“That does not change anything.” Rogers is prim and needling. 

 

Stark groans. “Mornin’, Mish. How’s the floor?” He gives a slightly insane smile. “Sleep alright?”   
  
“The the floor is structurally sound. The asset obtained the optimal amount of sleep.”

 

“Mish, two ninety-minute cycles is not optimal. But who am I to talk? Did you think about all the options?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“Have you come to a decision?” Brock is really liking this Stark guy.

 

“If the asset were to present itself as James Buchanan Barnes, would it have to remain Barnes?”

 

“That is a very tricky question, but I’m gonna try to break it down. I assume you’ve seen the media coverage?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“Well, the media are like leeches; they stick on something and they do not let go and they suck at it all the time. Cap is a pretty big person in the media for many reasons: his serum, his enhancements, his participation in the Avengers, his being frozen, his being a public figure, and his legend that was made after he crashed the plane, and a few other things. If all the sudden Cap’s best friend from the good ol’ days appears, it’ll be even more of a frenzy than it would be otherwise. James Barnes’ status as a WWII hero and part of the Howling Commandos is going to be another selling point, one they will capitalize on.

 

“Okay, long problem short. You can be whoever you want to be to us and we’ll respect that. James or Bucky or Misha or someone else, you tell us and that’s who you’ll be. But regular people won’t always respect that, some will, probably most won’t. The media will want to hear your opinions on this matter or another matter and dissect your answers and some will try to smear you. Ask Cap, it happens to him too.”

 

Rogers nods, but allows Stark to continue.

 

“Now we can release a statement saying that yes, you  are James Barnes but due to everything that happened to you, you would like to have a new identity, a fresh start as it were. Some news stations will get behind that, some won’t. But even the ones that do will probably say something like ‘Today our story is about Mikhail Volkov, who once went by Bucky Barnes and is the WWII-era best friend of Captain America.’ So you might leave him behind, but you’ll never really leave him behind.”

 

Misha considers for a moment, looking at his hands. “But you’ll know the asset is Misha, not Bucky?”

 

He’s asking Rogers, but Stark answers. “Righto, Mish. And if you decide later that you don’t want to be Misha anymore, we’ll call you whatever you want to be. But not Dog. I’m not going to call you Dog.”

 

Rogers looks him straight in the eyes. “You aren’t Bucky. You don’t need to be Bucky. You are who you tell me you are.”

 

Tension leaves Misha’s lower back. He leans against Brock’s calf. Brock doesn’t want to ruin the braid, so he puts his hand to the back of Misha’s neck instead.

 

“Use Barnes.”

 

\--

 

They watch Aladdin.

 

\--

 

Stark is back on the screen two-hours later. “Okay, listen up. I’ve got my lawyers on this now. Mish, this is what needs to happen. We are going to press charges against Department X, the Red Room, Hydra, the Russian government for crimes committed against you actively, and the American government for using you as an independant contractor for them on eight separate occasions, for neglect, negligence, and purposely fudged paperwork. We are also going to demand that you are exonerated from any crimes that were committed by your hands during your time as the Winter Soldier. These charges are going to be brought before the United Nations International Court. 

 

“Because you will legally be considered mentally incapacitated, you will need a power of attorney to press charges for you. A psychiatrist will need to see you and declare you legally mentally incapacitated. Don’t worry; I know a man. You will need to decide who you want to be your power of attorney. Do you know what that is?”

 

“Negative.”

 

“It means that person will have the legal authority to make medical and legal decisions for you. You can change your power of attorney at a later date, as long as you’re lucid. Got it?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“Wonderful. So you’ll need to chose someone to be your power of attorney. You can choose anyone, but I recommend either Rogers or myself. Rumlow could do it, but because he was a member of Hydra for fifteen years they may decide that POA is not legally binding, as technically he was one of your captors. Uh, he also has a warrant out for his arrest, so he can’t really show up to press the charges without being carted off.”

 

The asset continues to kneel quietly on the floor. 

 

“Think about it, Mish. This person is going to have a lot of power and a lot of responsibility. I’m coming up there with the doctor. Don’t attack us when we get there.”

 

\--

 

There’s a Disney movie marathon the rest of the day. The asset is entranced. He remains on the floor between Rogers’ and Brock’s knees.

 

\--

 

The asset takes the laptop and researches Stark.

 

\--

 

They are sitting on the bed. Brock is trying to sleep; Misha is not even pretending to attempt it.

 

“<It’s a lot to think about. Do you have anything you want cleared up?>”

 

“<The power of attorney, they will be the asset’s new handler?>” The voice carries no inflection.

 

Brock thinks about how to word this. “<In a sense. There won’t be any more missions. Your medical history concerns them. They want you at full capacity for your benefit. If a doctor were to prescribe a surgery or a treatment for you, the power of attorney would be able to order whether or not it would happen.>”

 

The asset doesn’t tense -- that response was conditioned out of him decades ago -- but Brock knows that Misha does not like the thought of someone else being able to order medical anything. 

 

“<You would leave the asset?>”

 

“<Only if you tell me to, Misha.>”

 

“<Sunshine is not the correct size.>”

 

“<I know. I’m sorry.>”

 

“<He should be the right size. Someone stole his brain and his voice and his eyes and put them in the wrong body. He is not the correct size. The sunshine’s body is not correct; maybe the sunshine’s actions will not be correct.>”

 

“<If you cannot rely on Rogers, then choose Stark. But from what I’ve observed, Rogers would move the moon and the stars for you, even if he is in the wrong body.>”

 

\--

 

Brock gets the munchies at around three in the morning. He creeps down the hall to the top of the stairs. Rogers is sitting on the couch, lost in his head. 

 

“Jarvis?”

 

Jarvis speaks quietly. “Yes, Captain Rogers?”

 

“What does ‘solnishka’ mean?”

 

“It is Russian for ‘sunshine,’ Captain Rogers.”

 

Rogers gives a little hitching sob. Brock goes back to bed without getting any food and lets Rogers break down without an audience. 

 

\--

 

“With the disappearance of Captain America, the release of government documents, and the revelation of Hydra, the nation takes comfort in knowing that one of the heros from the Manhattan catastrophe is still around and active. Iron Man has been making frequent flights over New York state and the Northeastern seaboard, protecting citizens and giving our nation strength.”

 

There is a video clip of an Iron Man suit flying over Bed-Stuy and a  _ live  _ written in the corner. 

 

What no one knows is that the suit is empty of anyone except Jarvis.

 

\--

 

Not forty minutes later, Tony Stark walks into his house in Oregon and interrupts another movie marathon and lunch on the couch. Doctor William Strot is behind him. 

Misha is eyeing Stark’s chest from his defensive crouch in front of Brock, knife in hand.

 

“Woah, Mish. Just me.”

 

The asset does not move. “Remove your weapon, Stark.”

 

Stark’s eyes glitter in comprehension. He starts taking off his shirt. Rogers doesn’t move, but he’s panther-loose.

 

“Look, Mish. See.” The arc reactor is apparently imbedded in Stark’s chest. He did not know that. “I can’t take it out any more than you can take off your arm.”

 

The arm is melted into the asset’s spine, rib cage, completely replaces the collarbone and scapula. Stark knows this. Misha uncrouches a little bit. “It’s okay. You can come closer. You can look, just don’t touch it, ‘kay?”

 

The arc reactor powers the Iron Man suits. If it is buried in Stark’s sternum, it’s because it’s keeping him alive. He watches with awe as this very average-strength human allows Misha to approach his life-support. The trust displayed by Stark is unequivocal.  The last of Brock’s distrust melts away.

 

Misha watches it from all angles. “What does it do?”

 

Brock’s eyes widen. The asset does not ask questions without prompting, even then only rarely. This is when he realises the trust is not unfounded and it is not unreturned. 

 

Stark looks torn. Suddenly, he’s speaking in Italian. “<It keeps me alive, Mish. I took shrapnel to the chest. I made this to keep it from my heart.>”

 

He cannot see the asset’s face, but he can hear the response. “<It is a weapon too.>”

 

“<Yeah. Yeah, it’s a weapon too.>”   
  
Misha holds up his metal hand. “<This is part of the asset’s spine.>”

 

Stark gives a wry grin. “<We’re both a mess, huh?>”

 

“<You were tortured.>”

 

Stark swallows. His answer is steady, but short. “<I was.>”

 

The asset does not reply, but he puts the knife away. 

 

Rogers and the doctor look on without knowing what is being said.

 

“Misha chooses Stark as Misha’s power of attorney.”

 

Stark’s whiskey eyes cut between Misha and Rogers. Rogers doesn’t shift a muscle.

 

“Yeah, okay, Mish. That’s fine. I’m a good choice, I swear.” He still looks a touch shell-shocked. Rogers is smiling and even Brock cannot tell if he is pleased or lying.

 

\--

 

They all sit around the dining table. Brock sits with the asset at his feet as the psychiatrist goes through the Winter Soldier’s files. The doctor’s face becomes more and more stormy.

 

Brock thinks of Stark’s prosthetic heart. He knows that is why his Soldier chose Stark over Rogers. Because Stark knows what it’s like to be vulnerable, to worry that your body will defy you. Rogers knew that once, but he’s in the wrong body now and the asset doesn’t trust that body. 

 

\--

 

“I’d like to speak to Mikhail alone, if that’s alright.”

 

“Negative.”

 

“That’s alright, Mikhail. But maybe you could choose just one to stay while we talk for a bit. Perhaps Mr. Stark, as you wish him to be your POA.”

 

Misha concedes. Brock and Rogers go upstairs. 

 

\--

 

Brock makes the most of their time alone. “You gonna be okay with this, Rogers?”

 

“Hmm? Yeah, no problem.”

 

Brock takes pity. “He doesn’t trust your body.”

 

That snares Rogers’ attention. “What?”   
  


“Misha does not trust your enhanced body; it isn’t what he remembers. You don't match what's in his head. That and Stark has a weapon as a prosthetic that’s keeping him alive.”

 

Rogers closes his eyes. “I know.”

 

Brock grimaces. “I don’t think you do, Rogers.”

 

They wait together in silence until Jarvis tells them they may go back downstairs. 

 

\--

 

The paperwork is signed by all needed parties; Jarvis sends it to Stark’s lawyers. 

 

\--

 

The car takes the psychiatrist away. Stark stays.

 

“So, you all ready to come back to New York with me?”

 

“Is that a good decision, Tony?”

 

“The tower is one one the most secure buildings in the world.”

 

Rogers raises an eyebrow. 

 

Stark clears his throat. “I’ve been making some adjustments since New York.”

 

There's a general pause. “I had Jarvis deliver the Rubik’s cubes there,” he bribes.

 

They pack up all their stuff and take the wine truck to the local airport, where Stark has one of his company planes waiting. When they touch down on the New York tarmac, an unnotable, Stark Industry delivery truck is idling. 

 

They pull into the underground parking garage entrance for deliveries at Stark Tower. There’s another for Stark’s private use. They get in one of seven elevators; this is the only one that goes high enough to get to residence portion of the Tower. 

 

“I’ve got something to show you, Mish. Don’t flip out. Wait here.”

 

Stark leaves them in a the elevator. The doors don’t shut. Stark comes back with his left arm covered to the upper arm in the Iron Man suit. He gets in the elevator and it takes them up two more floors. They all get off here.

 

Misha takes in the arm. Stark holds it out, palm down.  “This is part of the Mark 93. It--”

Stark stops talking as Misha brings his own metal arm up under Stark’s, forearm to forearm, lightly gripping at the elbow. Brock sucks in a breath. “Ah, another Thor greeting.”

 

“He isn’t greeting. He’s imprinting.”

 

Stark’s amber eyes flash; he grips Brock’s asset back. There is a curl of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. He locks eyes with Rogers and wonders if they’re feeling the same thing. 

 

\-- 

 

Brock sits at the bar, going over the strategy Stark’s lawyers have put together, while Misha and Stark stand in the living room entertaining themselves with the Iron Man suit. Well, one of the Iron Man suits. Rogers is in there too, but the asset is not concerned with him in the least. 

 

\--

 

Brock and the asset are in the gym on the 63rd floor, because apparently Stark has at least seven gyms and Brock is certain there are a minimum two his isn’t being told about.

 

They have been sparring for the last two hours. They both have excess emotions and energy to work off and they are being brutal; it is all Brock can do to keep up. 

 

Stark and Rogers walked in sometime in the last half hour and are observing from the sidelines. When Brock collapses in exhaustion, the asset stills, but is nowhere near worn out enough to calm his mind. 

 

Rogers speaks up. “I’ll spar with you, Misha, if you want to continue.”

 

The asset drops back into a fighting stance and Brock pulls himself off the mat. They fight and fight well, but Rogers refuses to go in for the kill, refuses to try to hurt. This is the asset fighting Rollins, not the asset fighting Brock. Stark watches with calculating eyes.

 

Three hours later, Stark calls out, “Rogers, Mish, your round is over.”

 

A robot wheels in with a case. Gunmetal grey and muted red. An Iron Man suit. Stark has it on in less than four seconds. The faceplate remains up. “I’ll spar with you in this on two conditions. My condition: I don’t use the reactors for anything other than flight.” He shows the asset the five reactors. “Your condition: if the chest reactor goes out or the faceplate darkens, you stand down. Got it?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

The faceplate drops into place and Tony Stark becomes Iron Man. “Then try to take me down, Mish.”

 

Stark attacks. He does not hold back. The asset revels.

 

\--

 

Ninety minutes later the Iron Man suit is damaged heavily and the asset is injured in at least seven places. They both ignore it. The fight continues. Rogers looks on curiously.

 

\--

 

After a last round of 137 minutes and Misha sparring for a total of over seven hours, the asset is worn out fully. He drops to his knees and looks up at Stark with reverent eyes.

 

The faceplate lifts. Stark is breathing hard and grinning wildly. “Done for today, Mish? Let’s go watch a movie; the Hunchback of Notre Dame is calling my name.”

 

Stark sends the suit away and they all troop to the elevator. The asset stands at Brock’s shoulder, but follows Stark with eyes that are almost greedy.

 

\--

 

Stark hands Brock a Starkphone before he disappears into his labs.

 

\--

 

Brock and the asset are shown to a room on Rogers’ floor. The asset sleeps for eight hours. Brock lets the reassuring weight of the asset on his chest seep through his body.

 

\--

 

Stark saunters into the room and Misha perks up. It's like a shot of epinephrine. Brock does not grit his teeth. 

 

Stark pours himself some ridiculously expensive alcohol. It is eleven in the morning. He chats with them for about forty minutes before Rogers exits the elevator. “Misha?” The asset turns his head to him. “Come with me please. I have something to show you.”

 

Misha looks to Brock for permission. He nods. Then Misha turns to fucking Stark. “Go ahead. Have fun, boys!”

 

Brock waits until the elevator has gone down at least eighteen floors. He doesn't bother asking if Stark knows what he's done; the man is a genius. He knows exactly what he's done. “What do you want to talk to me about so badly that you got Rogers in on it?”

 

Stark does him the courtesy of not denying it. “All of the files, excepting the formulas, will be submitted to the UN jury. You have been his handler for the last seven years. They will incarcerate you. I cannot keep you here. You know they won’t let him stay with one of his captors. I cannot be found purposefully harboring a fugitive.”

 

Brock knows this; it’s crossed his mind. And suddenly his asset seeing Stark as a handler is a blessing, not a curse. Stark won’t let the Soldier fall apart. 

 

“I’ll leave you to think about it. I won’t tell Mish yet. We won’t file until it’s done.”

 

Stark leaves the room. A screen colors. It’s a list of addresses. Stark’s addresses. There’s 112. Brock takes four photos. Another screen colors. A security code. Brock memorizes it. 

 

\--

 

Misha is perched at Brock’s feet, sipping a large glass of nutrition solution; Brock’s fingers are in his hair. Rogers is on the asset’s other side. Stark is in an armchair. “<Misha, you know they’re going to submit all the files to the UN. I am a criminal and the UN will consider me one of your abusers. I will be safe, but I’m going to leave; the Court won’t let you stay with any Hydra operatives, especially your handler.>”

 

His asset is silent, taking Brock’s word as law, just like always, and Brock cannot decide if abandoning his Soldier to Stark will be good for him or not. He gets the words out levelly. “<Do you understand?>”

 

“<Affirmative.>”

 

“<Your prerogative: questions.>”

 

“<You said you wouldn’t leave unless the asset requested it.>”

 

“<I know. I’m sorry.>” And he is, he is, he is, he is. He is breaking his word, but he is leaving his asset anyway. His asset. _His asset._ _His._

 

The velvet wavers, dependant and confused. “<Stark is the handler now?>” 

 

_ His asset _ . Brock wants to weep. “<Stark is the handler now.>”  _ Not his asset. _

 

(Not) his asset falls silent and Brock’s throat closes up.

 

(Not) his asset leans his head against Brock’s thigh.

 

\--

 

Romanoff calls Stark. “I’m finished here. I’m going to disappear for a while; thought I might ask to borrow a jet.”

 

“No problem, Natalie. I wanna see you before you go, maybe throw a private party, try to get you rip-roaringly drunk. Yup, I like it. Come see me before you go or no jets for you, missy.”

 

Even Brock can hear the smirk in her voice, “You could just say you miss me.”

 

Stark holds up a finger in protest. “You’re twisting my words!”

 

She hums. “I suppose I could manage that.” She disconnects.

 

The asset’s eyes shine in anticipation.

 

\--

 

Romanoff sashays out of the elevator onto Stark’s private floor. Brock is out of her line of sight in the living room, waiting for the rest of them to get the popcorn and treats and sit their asses down so they can watch the dragon kid movie that Rogers claims is excellent. He knows the only reason he isn’t out cold on the floor is because she doesn’t expect him to be here.

 

Stark waltzes out of the kitchen, the asset at his shoulder. Romanoff falters almost unnoticeably. (Not) his asset’s body is ready to spring. “Yasha,” she breathes, but her body is preparing for a fight.

 

“<You did great things, Natalia.>”

 

And, will wonders never cease?, (not) his asset lifts his flesh arm about four inches and Romanoff flies across the room and situates herself under (not) his asset’s arm, tucked tightly into his body. 

 

Rogers stands in the entryway with the popcorn in his arms and takes it in with old, old eyes.

 

“So, I apparently missed something,” Stark snipes, but Brock would bet his last four paychecks that he’s pieced it together by now. “Let’s move this touching reunion to the couches. Hiccup and Toothless are growing impatient.” Start lifts his hands and shoos them toward the screen. (Not) his asset moves instantly. Romanoff gets pulled out of her fixation on her Yasha enough to see Brock on the couch. 

 

“Oh. You.”

 

Brock huffs. “You and Rogers spend too much time together.”

 

Romanoff and Stark and Rogers exchange complicated expressions. Romanoff visibly pouts and tucks herself closer into (not) his asset. All of the men in the room not offering shelter to 5’5” of deadly grace raise their eyebrows, but the asset glares at them all and . . . settles himself in the armchair with the Widow snuggled securely in his lap. She tucks her head under his chin and gives them all a smug, satisfied look; (not) his asset continues to glare at them in mistrust for making his Spiderling (pretend) pout.

 

Wisely, none of them decide to approach the Terrors in the chair and start the movie without a word or an exchanged Look.

 

\--

 

Hiccup makes his closing monologue and Brock cuts his eyes once more to the armchair. Romanoff’s head remains tucked into (not) his asset’s neck; she holds the long tail of the braid in her right fist, ankles tucked against Yasha’s/Misha’s/Soldat’s/(not) his asset’s left thigh, curled into a loose ball of limbs and calm.

 

Stark is either pretending this isn’t happening or that it is normal. His voice is bright and, if angled right, he could cut someone on it. “Right. I think it’s time for bed.”

 

(Not) his asset fluidly gets to his feet, Romanoff still secured in his arms, and strides to the elevator, muttering something too low for Brock to catch, but what must be in Russian because Rogers shrugs a shoulder at them helplessly. The rest of them follow, caught off-guard and slightly confused.

 

The elevator door opens at a floor that is not where Brock and (not) his asset have been given a room. The Soldat -- because he is not (not) his asset, not the Soldier, not Misha right now -- exits. The apartment is done in soothing, neutral tones of beige and gray and mauve with pops of purple and dark pink and bright blue and yellow. What is this place? 

 

The Soldat walks directly to one of the rooms and Brock and Rogers follow, Stark ambling behind them. The Soldat and his girl make it through the threshold and, not even turning to glance at their followers, shut the door firmly behind them. 

 

Stark pipes up, “My guess is we won’t see them for a good while. Nightcap, anyone?”

 

Misha has Stark; the Soldat or Yasha or whoever he is now has  _ Natalia Alianova Romanova loves you _ ; Rogers is the sunshine,  _ solnishka _ , even if the asset refuses to claim him; Brock is being left behind. But that’s not right, Brock broke his word; he’s abandoning (not) his asset. The asset is being left behind, not the other way around. Brock is light-headed and fighting with his stomach. “I’ll take you up on that, Stark.”

 

They go back upstairs. Rogers’ eyes linger on the shut door.

 

\--

 

It is almost noon before Romanoff and the Soldat stroll out of the elevator, holding hands. Rogers is grinning and it reaches his eyes, but that means absolutely nothing. Romanoff’s eyes are emeralds and stilettos; the Soldat’s are sapphires and katanas. They take in the room and its occupants, not missing a thing. 

 

They walk like a big cat to the kitchen and work like one unit to make a bowl of oatmeal and a side of eggs and toast. They never let go of each other and the food is prepared to perfection. A glass of juice for Romanoff and a liter of nutrition solution finish their meal set-up.

 

The Soldat sits in the chair, legs open, and the Widow settles herself on his right thigh. His arm comes around her waist; both her hands are available to use and the Soldat’s metal arm grips the liter container in front of them. 

 

Rogers sounds pleased as punch. Brock wonders what Romanoff and the Soldat read on him. “Morning, Misha, Natasha. Happy to see you both.” That, at least, Brock does not doubt. 

 

Romanoff tilts an eyebrow and grins. “It’s almost noon.”

 

Rogers takes on an affronted mask. “Still morning yet, Tasha.” 

 

Romanoff’s grin remains. “I thought we could do something as a group today. Sounds good?”

 

Rogers jumps all over that. “Yes, absolutely.”

 

Her grins turns wicked. “Jarvis, will you please tell Tony his presence is required in the 89th floor rec room.”

 

Rogers turns pouty and whines. “Nat, is this really what we’re doing?”

 

Romanoff is a cat that got the cream. She finishes her meal at the same time as the Soldat. They move as a unit to clean the mess, then start towards the elevator. Rogers huffs and follows. Brock takes after them so he doesn’t get left behind. 

 

\--

 

Brock considers himself a flexible person, really he does, but this is insane. 

 

One hour after they made it down to the rec room and the yoga has turned into contortionism. Romanoff and the Soldat are grace and fluidity personified. Rogers a little less so, but he is managing to get the pose correct. This is just beyond Brock’s limits. Stark looks like. . . Brock doesn’t even know what Stark looks like and he can’t figure it out before Stark collapses. He’s breathing hard. 

 

“I’m done,” Stark wheezes out from his excellent impersonation of a starfish on the floor. “Why do you torture me? I am not flexible. The suit doesn’t let this kind of movement anyways.”

 

The corner of Romanoff’s mouth twitches. “You’ll live.”

 

It is another fifteen minutes before Romanoff tells them they’re done for the day. Brock feels like taffy.

 

\--

 

Brock’s bed is empty again that night. He leaves tomorrow. He refuses to cry, but a few tears escape despite his decree.

 

\--

 

He wakes up at four in the morning to find the asset curled against his back, awake and guarding him. He gives a sappy smile before going back to sleep.

 

\--

 

His asset is still with him when he wakes at 0630. They lay quietly together for hours.

 

\--

 

They go down to the gym and spar one last time. Brock pushes himself to make sure it lasts as long as he can physically endure. After five hours, (not) his asset puts him out cold. 

 

He’s glad it ended this way.

 

\--

 

They shower. Brock washes (not) his asset’s hair nine times, dragging it out as long as he can.

 

The shower never runs cold.

 

\--

 

(Not) his asset sits between his spread legs while Brock braids, unbraids, braids, unbraids, braids, unbraids, braids. They have not been bothered all day. And for that Brock is grateful. But 0300 looms ever closer. 

 

Braid. Unbraid. Braid. Unbraid. Braid.

 

He swallows and blinks furiously.

 

Braid. Unbraid. Braid.

 

He will not cry.

 

Braid. Unbraid. Braid.

 

He bends over and sobs into (not) his asset’s shoulder. Metal finger grip his forearm and flesh ones grasp his ankle. Brock allows himself this.

 

When he finally composes himself, he braids, unbraids, braids, unbraids, braids. He wants to say  _ Brock Rumlow loves you _ , but he doesn’t. He just braids, unbraids, braids, unbraids, braids and hopes that (not) his asset understands what he cannot make his mouth form. 

 

It is 0253. Unbraids. 0254. Braids. 0259. He kisses the top of (not) his asset’s head and strides towards to elevator. (Not ) his asset does not move from his spot on the floor.

 

\--

 

Stark meets him at the unmarked delivery van in the garage. “Take care of him.”  _ You’re the Primary Handler now. _

 

Stark’s eyes are whiskey and serious. “I will.’  _ I accept. _

 

Brock opens his mouth, closes it, and nods. He holds out his hand. Stark takes it. “Thank you.”

 

This time, it is Stark who nods. Brock gets in the back of the van. The doors close and the van drives away.

 

Brock has no tears left to shed. 

 

His mind pulls up (not) his asset as Brock left him: sitting loose and still in front of the couch, dark curls caught up in a simple French braid, back to Brock, not watching him walk away for the last time.

 

He wonders if (not) his asset has moved.

 

Turns out he has tears left to spill after all.

 

**END OF PART ONE.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II will continue from Tony Stark's, the new Primary Handler, point of view. 
> 
> EDIT 8 April: I was going to continue with Tony's POV in this same story; however, I am going to create a series instead and mark this work as complete. More to come in a new work.


End file.
